


What He Should've Said

by reallyireaditfortheplot



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 7x05 fix it, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Ser Dadvos, Seriously why are none of you talking about arya, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-13 14:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 39,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17489657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallyireaditfortheplot/pseuds/reallyireaditfortheplot
Summary: Seeing the prisoners at Eastwatch causes Gendry to reveal a few things to Jon. Continues past season seven finale. Eventual Gendry/Arya reunion.





	1. Davos I

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for vulgarity and subject matter. Underage is implied as an insult, but does not happen within the story. I haven't written anything in awhile, hope this goes well!
> 
> *Some edits for middle-of-the-night typos and clarity. Thank you all so much!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fix it of the scene in 7x05 where Arya is talked about.

“Don’t trust them,” Gendry said, stepping out of the shadows. “They sold me to the red woman.”

Beric, to his credit, did look remorseful as he said “We needed the money. Though I am glad you’re alive. Why didn’t she burn you?”

Gendry ignored this, his face taking on a single-minded intensity. “What happened to Arya?” he demanded, coming right up to the bars to glare at Thoros and Beric. He was not entirely successful in hiding the quiver in his voice. It was silent for a moment as Beric tilted his head and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. Thoros sighed, and looked over to The Hound. 

Davos noted that, of everyone in the room, only he and Tormund looked to Jon, though Tormund seemed confused more than anything. _Of fucking course;_  he thought.  _Because being a Baratheon bastard isn’t enough, he knows his Grace’s baby sister as well_. He would’ve said the gods have an odd sense humor if he believed in any of them.

“Answer me!” Gendry bellowed, the sound echoing through the stone. Davos had only seen the old King the once, but he knew Stannis as well as anyone. There was Gendry’s inheritance. 'Ours is the fury' indeed.

From the other corner of the cell The Hound let out a coarse laugh. “What the fuck do you care about the little Stark bitch?”

Gendry rounded to stare at him. “Because she was my friend,” Gendry’s anger was quieter now, and Davos noted how guilt had crept into the young man’s voice. “Because I spent the last five years not knowing if she’s alive or dead. Not knowing if it was my fault.”

Another silence. Davos looked to the King, wanting to know why he hadn’t said anything, asking with his eyes if he should step in. But Jon raised his hand only a few inches, just enough to indicate to wait. It was a similarity Jon had with Stannis, both Kings were perfectly comfortable saying little and less, preferring people tie their own nooses than interrogate them.

Clegane seemed to consider this before saying “Like that then? Really? Never would’ve guessed you liked ‘em quite that young.” It was clear the Hound was trying to make Gendry lose his temper, but it seemed he didn’t care. With murder in his eyes he made towards the door to the cell, Beric stood up to put himself in between them, and The Hound just laughed.

But before he could get there, Jon spoke. “Gendry.” He said, his voice unearthly quiet. One word, and the room remembered they were in the presence of a King. Not for the first time, Davos remarked that for a man who didn’t want to rule, Jon Snow was taking to it quite naturally.

Eyes lowered, breath heavy, Gendry regained control of himself and turned back towards Jon. “Your Grace, it wasn’t- I would never- she was a child…” Another deep breath.

“And how  _did_ you know her?” Jon’s face was a picture of control, of perfectly constrained turmoil. Only Davos, and maybe Tormund, noticed the sadness behind the anger in his eyes. Davos wondered if he was perhaps cursed to continue bringing Gendry before monarchs who would kill him. He certainly didn’t believe The Hounds accusation, but Gendry hadn’t told the King he knew his sister at all.

Davos had seen his King charge an army single-handedly for his brother, had seen him help his sister feed her rapist to rabid dogs. Jon had told him how it was only his new brothers intervention that kept him from deserting The Night’s Watch after he heard about his father. Davos knew better than anyone in the room what The King in the North was capable of for his family.

“We were travelling together. To the wall.” Gendry said. The truth, yes, but not enough he knew. The King’s face did not move, so he kept talking.

“A black brother, Yoren, was taking a lot of us out of King’s Landing. She told me she was in Baelor’s square when your Lord father was beheaded, in the crowd. That Yoren found her there.”

Jon’s eyes betrayed nothing, but his fist gripped his sword ever tighter.

“He disguised her as a boy, but I wasn’t fooled. We were attacked by gold cloaks on the road. She was sure they were there for her, but they were there for me. Didn’t know why at the time. Apparently Queen Cersei wasn’t too keen on leaving her husbands bastards around. Arya saved my life, told the gold cloaks one of the boys they’d already killed was me. That was when she told me who she was. Yoren was dead, the others left us behind. We were alone, just us and Hot Pie... and Lommy while he lasted. We survived. Together. I thought I was leading us at the time, but she’s the reason any of us survived. Eventually we were captured and taken to Harrenhal, waiting to be tortured until Lord Tywin got there. But she broke us out. And after that the Brotherhood found us.”

Jon said nothing, merely turning to Thoros and Beric.

“Aye, we found them. Fierce little thing, half his size, standing in front of him and waving around the smallest sword I’ve ever seen. Threatening each and every one of us a horrible death if we came any closer.” Beric paused as Thoros chuckled at the memory. Davos noticed the Kings small intake of breath, surprise, pain perhaps?

Beric continued. “To the boys credit, he didn’t tell us who she was. We captured Clegane not long after we found the children and he told us. We were going to take her to the Twins, to her mother and brother.”

Here Gendry cut in, his voice so quiet Davos’s heart began to break for the boy all over again. “She begged me to come with her. To make swords for her brother, The King in the North.” At this, he made eye contact with Jon, hoping the King would understand why he wanted to go north of the Wall. “She said she could be my family and I said no.” He paused, closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slow again. “Then they sold me to The Red Witch and I’ve heard nothing since.”

Jon, who had been staring Gendry down throughout this confession, looked to Davos, and then to his feet. Davos wished the King would say something, tell him Arya was alive and home. The lad was in agony. But as he opened his mouth Jon spoke over him.

“Was she at the Red Wedding?” Jon asked Beric and Thoros.

“No, your Grace. She ran off befo-” Thoros was interrupted.

“Yes.” said Clegane, he wouldn’t meet Jon’s eyes. “I took her to the Twins. we got there just as the slaughter was ending. I had to knock her out to keep her from charging in. After that she kept killing every fucking Frey we ran into on the road. I took her to the Eyrie, see if I could sell her to her Aunt Lysa. But that crazy old cunt had gone and offed herself only a few days before we got there. Her next closest family was you, up at the fucking wall, and before I could figure out how to fucking get us there that giant bitch found us. Fought me, won, Brienne of fucking Tarth, and the little wolf cunt left me for dead.”

Davos noticed how at the mention of Brienne, Tormund's face lit up and he began to open his mouth. Davos caught Jorah’s eye, pleading, and Jorah pulled Tormund back before he could launch into another ode to Brienne’s magnificence.

“Don’t call her that.” Gendry said quietly.

The Hound finally stood up, at his height only needing one step to stand right up next to the bars in Gendry’s face. “I’ll call her whatever I fucking want. Was it you feeding her, protecting her, keeping her from murdering everyone in sight-”

“YES IT WAS.” Gendry cut him off with one last shout. Quietly this time, voice full of regret, and sadness, and a helplessness Davos couldn’t help but hear. “Yes it was.”

Davos saw something shift in the king’s face. He was done letting them talk.

“Enough.” Jon almost growled. “I assume no one here found her again after this? Ser Jorah, Tormund, you don’t have any secrets about my family you haven’t shared?” Davos snorted, and the others remained silent. “Good. Arya is alive. I don’t know where she’s been but she arrived at Winterfell not long after I left. Davos, get them out of there and tell them where we’re going. Gendry, with me.”


	2. Tormund

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormand tries to understand what's going on.

Tormund was confused. 

“I’m confused,” he said to Davos. Tormund knew Davos would answer simply, without all the blubbering the kneelers usually hid their meaning with. “ I thought his sister was the tall one, kissed by fire? She was in Winterfell before. And the loud one looks to be of an age with her, what’s the problem?”

Davos took a deep breath and replied “His Grace has another sister, several years younger than Sansa. He hasn’t seen her since she was perhaps - ten years old?”

“Ah. Will Lord Crow need help gelding the boy before he kills him?” He asked with all seriousness. If the girl wasn’t here to do it herself and her mother was dead, the duty would fall to her nearest family, Jon. 

“No he will not.” The one-eyed one said. Beric? Southerners had such odd names. “That was unkind of you my friend.” He turned to the burned one. “You saw how he protected her. How she protected him.”

“I wanted to know something. Now I know.” Clegane replied.

“And what, exactly, was it the ye wanted to know?” Davos asked.

“If he was really that fat old fuck’s son. He looks just like him, twenty years younger, and without the belly the boar ripped out. And then, actually telling us? Not too bright. And he’s certainly got the temper.” the Hound replied. Tormund decided he liked this one. He wanted to ask him what it was like fighting Brienne. What an honor that had to be.

“What fat old fuck?” Tormund asked the older man beside him in a low voice, as Davos sent a man to get the cell’s keys.

“The usurper, Robert Baratheon.” He answered. Tormund was unimpressed with this southerner, merely grunting in reply, and the man continued. “The old king.” 

“Which one? The crows seem to disagree on how many there’ve been.” Tormund said. How did southerners keep track of this, who was kneeling, who was standing. There were so many rules to this madness. No wonder they were all so constipated, not one had ever breathed freely in his life.

“The one whose death spawned all the others to crown themselves.”  the man replied.

“Ah the one whose wife is fucking her brother. Why didn’t you say?” He huffed. “If Jon brought you it means you must not be useless. I am Tormund Giantsbane.”

“Jorah Mormont,” the knight responded, nodding to the wildling.

Tormund stepped back. “You’re a  _ fucking _ Mormont?”

~~~~


	3. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a talk with Gendry about Arya.

Jon wasn’t entirely sure where he was taking Gendry. He was just walking. The younger man wasn’t struggling to keep up, rather he was following steadily and saying nothing. Jon was grateful for that at least. He needed the quiet, a moment to reconcile this new knowledge. He had known Arya was alive, Sansa would never have written him if she wasn’t truly sure. But knowing she was in Winterfell was different than what Gendry and the others had just told him. Knowing she was home was so much easier than knowing what she’d had to do to get there. 

After several minutes, they walked by a balcony that faced the sea and Jon walked out onto it. As Gendry followed him, he visibly shivered. Jon let a quick breath out, remembering when he first went north of the Wall.  _ And I’d thought that was cold. We’re just children of Summer, all of us;  _ he mused. Jon decided to stay on the balcony. The smith would have to get used to the cold sometime. Winter was here.

Jon realized that Gendry was still waiting for him to speak.

“Why did you come with us?” Jon asked. He tried to soften his voice. He wanted to have this conversation as Jon, not as the King in the North. It was getting harder to reconcile the two. Or was it getting harder to separate them? Jon wasn’t sure.

Gendry looked up, surprise turning to confusion on his face.  _ He was expecting His Grace. He was expecting a fight _ .

“I thought- maybe I could make it up to her. I left one Stark. I shouldn't've. I  thought I could help another one, for her.” Gendry looked bewildered, and Jon suspected that the young man had yet to think his decision that far through yet. Jon could understand that, doing what is right and only realizing why after.

“I’m not a Stark.” Jon said. Tyrion had had a point all those years ago. He’d worn his bastard birth as armor. Tyrion hadn’t mentioned how heavy that protection would be though.

“You were to her.” Gendry replied with a small smile. “She called you her best brother. Said you gave her Needle.”

Jon’s grimace turned into a smile despite himself. “It was the last time I saw her. She wanted to fight so badly, hells she was already better than Bran. I wanted her to have something to remember me by. I wasn’t sure when I’d see her again. So I gave her a sword.” 

Jon’s smile faded. “And now you tell me she’s killed men with it. That you’ve had to stop her from killing men with it." Jon paused, let out a breath. "I've killed men. I've hanged men, beheaded them, burnt them. Cut them down before I even saw their eyes. Men who's names I will never know, men I trusted with my life. I see their faces in my dreams. I hear their cries. I carry them all with me, waiting for the day they suffocate me. I didn't just give her a sword, Gendry. I gave her ghosts.”

Gendry was already shaking his head. “She would've had ghosts anyway. You kept her from becoming one. That sword saved our lives more than once. That sword is the reason she escaped the Red Keep.” He was walking forward now, his voice hard as iron. “We did what we had to do to survive. No other highborn girl would’ve made it through all of that, never mind saving someone else’s skin as she went. She’s killed, yes. She's haunted, yes. But she’s alive. That is what you gave your sister.” Gendry finished loudly, suddenly within a step of Jon.

“Y’grace forgive me, I shouldn’t have…” Gendry stuttered out, stepping back, remembering Jon was not merely Arya’s brother.

“It’s alright, really. A King needs honesty. Everyone does. And you're right.” Jon said, waving it away. “You’ll find that Northerners have little issue speaking to their King as they would. Not to mention the Free Folk.”

“Will you still allow me to come with you?” Gendry asked, hesitant.

“Aye.” Jon said. “And after, assuming we’re not all dead, you’ll come to Winterfell.” The King’s eyes went hard with regret, only to soften, almost as if ice was cracking. “I couldn’t be there to protect her, but I can bring back someone who was. Unless you’d like to go to Winterfell now.”

“Thank you, but no. I want to help, I want to fight.” Gendry said resolutely.  _ I can see why Arya kept him around  _ Jon thought. The smith may have been a bit green around the edges, but he was loyal.

Gendry continued this with an afterthought. “And I think Arya would kill me if I didn’t.” The smith wore a small, secret smile at this. His eyes shone with pride over Arya’s fierceness, and for the first time since Jon had met him he was holding himself upright.

Jon considered this as he clapped Gendry on the shoulder and walked back inside. He reminded himself that while they may have both been children when Gendry last saw her, she would be a woman grown now.

_ Poor lad. He’s fucked. _


	4. Thoros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jon and Gendry have walked off, the remainder of the suicide squad talks about their mission.

Thoros was chuckling. Thoros was usually in some state of laughter, but he considered it particularly warranted at the moment. The Lord of Light was generally not a humorous god, but occasionally His plan had a palpable mirth about it.

“You’re a _fucking_ Mormont?” said the wildling loudly, bringing his private conversation to the attention of the others in the room. Thoros saw his opportunity to greet his old companion.

“Yes he is. Ser Jorah, it’s good to see you on Westerosi soil. Or, ice, really.” Thoros quickly pulled himself up and walked to the bars, resting his forearms on them and putting his face as far through as he could.

The wildling was frozen in place, but his eyes danced wildly. _Well, more wildly_ Thoros thought.

“You’re father slaughtered hundreds of my people. Hunted us like animals,” Tormund growled through clenched teeth, chest out and hand to a weapon at his belt.

Jorah took a deep breath, and Thoros noticed a deep sadness in the other man’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I seem to recall your people returning the favor,” Jorah said, as he sighed and squared his shoulders. _He’s lost the love he had for the fight. He’ll do it, but it costs him something now._

Thoros was content to see what happened next, his friend was not. “Those are wars of the past. The Lord of Light has brought us all here, despite our past allegiances, to serve in the great fight. We are all on the same side here.” Beric said, with that deep and sometimes annoying faith in his voice. Thoros could understand that being brought back from death time and again would bolster a man’s faith, but never felt it himself. _I’ve performed the damn miracles haven’t I? Watched every one of them. Where’s my belief, my surety. Will I ever have peace with the god I serve?_

Tormund was clearly not comforted by this, but the man who Thoros realized must be Ser Davos Seaworth spoke up. Not many people had half of their fingers, and the story of Stannis’s particular style of justice had spread far and wide.

The onion knight seemed to have to fight to get the words out. “He’s right. It’s the living versus the dead now. We’ve no time for old loyalties and grudges...”

“Speaking of old loyalties Ser Davos, I thought you were in service to King Stannis?” Thoros asked with genuine concern.

“Stannis is dead. Deserved it too.” Davos spat out. For a moment, Thoros could see behind the curtain of Davos’s placid face, a roiling sea of rage and grief was within him. Before he could ask more, Beric said what he was thinking. _He says it better than I do anyway._

“What would make a loyal man like you turn against his King? Clearly maiming you was not enough.” Beric asked, with that half smile.

The boy had returned with the keys, and Davos opened the cell deliberately. He looked directly into Beric’s eye before he answered. “Your god told him to burn his daughter alive. An eleven year old girl. A bright, kind child I loved as my own. Burnt to ashes.”

Beric’s eye softened. “My god told him to, or the Red Woman?” he asked, stepping from the cell, closely followed by Thoros and Clegane.

“Her. He sent me away before he did it, because he knew I would’ve saved Shireen, would’ve hidden her away just like Gendry.” Davos said, fierceness covering helplessness. Thoros wished he knew what to say to this. He had all his own doubts about Melisandre, but this… _how can I serve a god who’s followers think burning a child is even an option? I sold the boy, knowing what she would do to him._

It was too much. Thoros began to laugh, a true and desperate sound echoing around the room.

“And what do ye find funny about this exactly?” said the old smuggler, his voice going dangerously low.

“Many, many things. And nothing at all,” the priest answered, honest but vague, truthful and yet unhelpful. _But that’s faith isn’t it._

“What my good friend means to say is that the Lord of Light works in odd ways. He’s sent us all to serve His purpose, this crew of men all with reason to hate one another.” Davos’s face hardened against this. “Gendry, the boy we sold, one of the only people alive who even knows we had Arya Stark, walks in with her brother. Clegane, the man who lost the child after we did. You, Davos, a man who hates the god we serve, who saved one child we condemned and couldn’t save another. A wildling; and the son of the old Lord Commander, a man who was condemned to die by the King’s own father.” Beric turned slowly, looking at each of them in turn.

“We are what’s left.” Beric finished. _And I was just going to say I didn't know how us all killing eachother would serve the Lord of Light._ Thoros never did understand how his friend did it, but he was grateful to Beric’s steadfastness. One of them needed to be priestly while he drank.

Davos took a breath, the determined and dutiful expression returning to his face. “Aye. We are. Let’s go get the lot of you supplies, and I suppose you’ll need dragonglass as well, only his Grace has Valyrian steel.”

Thoros saw the flicker of uncertainty in Jorah’s face at this. “And what exactly is our mission?” he asked, his voice light.

“To go beyond the Wall, capture one of the dead, and bring it back.” Davos paused, a decision being made. “To bring the King back, above all else.”

Thoros snorted. “Oh. That’s all?” he said. Beric laughed, and to Thoros’ surprise so did the wildling. “And how would our young king feel about that?” Thoros was remembering a different Stark’s reaction to people trying to protect her, he knew this one would be no different.

“He’d hate it, and that’s why we’re not gonna tell him.” A sigh came from Davos as Thoros smirked. “Bring him home. Do you what you couldn’t do for Arya.”

  
With that Davos turned and began to lead them away. Thoros knew, somehow, that his faith would be all he had in the coming fight. _So not very fucking much._


	5. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation North of the Wall about women who can kill you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little mini chapter for Sandor! Don't worry, a reunion at Winterfell will be here soon!

It was one of the stupidest fucking ideas Clegane had ever heard, so clearly it was thought up by some high born twat. And the King would always correct people, ‘I’m not a Stark’.  _ Yes, we fucking understand. You’re a bloody Snow. Doesn’t fucking mean you’re not a high born twat.  _ Six men;  _ if you counted the little blacksmith as a man now; _ six men to venture off into a gods-damned frozen waste. But killing the enemy was too easy, no, they needed to capture one of ‘the dead’, and bring it back without dying themselves.

_ Stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever fucking done. _ Yet Sandor knew he had too. He’d seen something in the flames, he’d seen a mountain. Suddenly so many of the things Beric and the Red Priest had said made sense. He still found it incredibly annoying, but it made sense. This was where he was supposed to be. A feeling so alien to him he couldn’t identify it at first. Like with the little wolf bitch. Either of them, really. He was supposed to protect her as long as he could. He didn’t know why, or even how he knew. The entire thing made  him want to drink as many skins of wine it would take to stop thinking for ten minutes. He wasn’t supposed to be the one with the destiny. He wasn’t supposed to matter.

But here he was, walking away from the Wall, towards… something. He debated telling them that he knew Cersei, and nothing was going to convince the mad old bitch to play nice. Nothing. But the King in the North had had an idea so clearly that was what they had to do. 

The wildling thought he was being subtle, as began to shift from walking next to the little king to come up next to Sandor. “Earlier, you mentioned Brienne of Tarth. You said she beat you. What was it like?” he said, reverently, like he was prying into a religious experience.

“It fucking hurt.” Sandor replied. Tormund looked disappointed, but what had he expected? “I wouldn’t have survived it without the help of a Septon that found me after.”

“She is magnificent isn’t she,” the shorter man nodded, his smile wide and hopeful.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Clegane demanded. “She’s a warrior. She could cut off your cock and strangle you with it, she’s not some storied beauty.”

Tormund shook his head in pity. “You don’t understand. She is beautiful. She is fierce. She doesn’t need anyone to protect her. It’s wonderful. She could slaughter me where I stand.” His hands began to gesticulate as he got more excited. “But she hasn’t! Which means I still have a chance!”. Seeing Clegane shake his head in disbelief, Tormund continued. He tapped Gendry on the shoulder, said “You agree with me! Tell him there is nothing more beautiful than a woman who might kill you.” triumphantly, as if that settled the matter.

“Don’t drag me into this,” he said, turning quickly and pointing at Tormund’s face before walking faster to catch up with Snow.  _ Brave little shit, have to give him that,  _ Sandor thought. Both he and Tormund were laughing at the pink flush creeping up Gendry’s face.  _ Oh I hope I get to see the little bitch kick his arse. _


	6. Gendry I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before they arrive at Winterfell, Gendry can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got suuuuper long so I'm splitting it in two!

Gendry couldn’t sleep.

Which wasn’t all that odd, by itself. He’d never been an easy sleeper. Not since he’d first left King’s Landing. Especially not since Harrenhal. Those few weeks waiting to be tortured would be enough to keep him from sleep for the rest of his life. They spent the entire time switching between utter, back breaking terror and absolute exhaustion. He was terrified he or Hot Pie would be picked, he didn’t want to die screaming, didn’t want to have to watch his friend do the same. 

But what he was most scared of was if they picked Arya. 

There were a few things that could’ve happened. They could believe she was a boy, and torture her to death.  They could find out she was a girl, rape her like they did the others, and then torture her to death. They could rape her and not kill her, keep her around to use whenever they wanted, like a few of the women he’d seen here. If they picked her, he decided he would tell them who she was. She’d hate him for it, they might not believe him, they might kill him, but if it worked she’d be safe.  _ No, not safe. No one’s safe. Alive. _ A high born hostage, with food, and a roof, and some small hope they wouldn’t touch her. Or if they did, they wouldn’t kill her.

_ She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s a day's ride away. She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s a day’s ride away.  _ He chanted this to himself as he lay in his cot, trying to stop his mind from racing through memories. Her shaking in his arms when she heard a woman being raped that first night at Harrenhal. Her face when she said she could be his family, and when he said no. How she threatened the Red Woman for him, when she broke them out of Harrenhal, him holding her back after the Hound’s trial. Every curse at him, every time she called him stupid, those few precious moments of vulnerability when she let him protect her or comfort her. He was remembering all of it, all at once, and he couldn’t make it stop. He couldn’t lay still with it all bouncing around his head.

He’d had it all locked up tight. It was better that way, for surely she had died at the Red Wedding. Or on the road. Somehow. She was dead, and therefore the hole she left was best ignored. She had to be dead, because if she wasn’t what the fuck had he been doing in King’s Landing all that time.  _ She was my family, for however short a time, and I didn’t even know. _ He’d thought about it, more than once, leaving and going… anywhere really. The North, Dorne, the Free Cities, maybe even that inn they left Hot Pie at. But he never did.

_ I waited for my moment. And it came. Now I just have to hope she wants me here.  _ Gendry had no doubt that if Arya didn’t want him there, his parentage and his skills wouldn’t matter for shit. He expected the King would give him a horse and some food and that’d be that.  _ Anything is better than her not caring. Hate me or want me stay, but gods please don’t let her have forgotten me.  _

He had come back to Dragonstone while the Dragon Queen and the King in the North went to meet with Cersei. Jon had pulled him aside, told him that he would’ve been able to come if only he didn’t look so damn much like his father. “Best not parade in front of Cersei the one bastard of King’s Landing the gold cloaks couldn’t find. Davos can take you back to your shop if you want, but if not, would you perhaps stay here? We’ve all the dragonglass we could ever need and not nearly enough people who can actually craft weapons from it.”

Gendry agreed, but as Jon left him, he turned and said with knowing eyes, “And try not to die falling off a cliff, will you. There’s still someone waiting for you at Winterfell.”

He was caught off guard by this, and paused for a moment before very quietly saying, “Thank you, your grace.” Jon merely nodded as left.  _ He couldn't mean it like that.  _

Gendry looked to a long dragonglass knife he’s crafted for himself that was sticking out of his pack. He wanted to somehow put the obsidian in or on a hammer, but that would take time and a forge that wasn’t half falling apart. So he made knives and arrowheads and spears. As many as he could in those few days. As many as he could on the boat, though it was slower going with the rocking. It was actually quite a beautiful material, and Gendry had set aside a few promising pieces of stone for when he had more time.

He could hear Master Mott in his head, asking him why he was hacking out as many crude weapons as he could. “We make things of beauty here, boy. Things that fathers will give to their sons. Anyone can make a sword. You are not just  _ anyone _ . You can make something that men will remember.”

_ She already has a sword. But a dagger. I could make her a dagger. But how will it to be balanced? She must’ve grown, but how much? Will she need a larger grip?  _ At this he looked to his hand, knowing exactly how small hers was when they had met. And how it was slightly less small when he left her.

_ She’ll be a woman grown now.  _ Gendry was walking a fine line with this thought. He needed to remember that she wasn’t a child anymore, but actually thinking of her as a woman led to dangerous thoughts.  _ We’ve had this conversation,  _ he told himself. _ Kings bastard or not, you are a blacksmith from Flea Bottom and she is a lady of a great house. Any friendship you have will be met with great suspicion. And anything past friendship- _

He shook his head and rolled over. That was not a thought it would be helpful to finish. He wanted to stay with the Brotherhood for all the reasons he told her, yes. Freedom for the first time in his life. But there was another reason, one he’d only admitted to himself recently.  _ She’d go back to her mother and brother. They’d give her a bath and try to put her in a dress. Sure, she’d come see me in the forge at first, but after a few years it would be unseemly.  _ A few more years after that, the wildness that made him smile so would be drummed out of her. She would become the proper little lady she was always supposed to be. And he would get to watch as the fierce little girl who’d sworn she would be his family was married off to some shit of a lordling who would never deserve her.  _ Not that I would deserve her either. I left.  _

He rolled over again, as if he could hide from his own thoughts that way.

Gendry was glad they’d found this abandoned village. Cold as it was in the hut he was sharing with Davos, it was cold enough outside that his tears would’ve frozen to his face. As he reached up to wipe them away, it suddenly became clear that Davos was not as asleep as Gendry had thought.

“Lad.” 


	7. Gendry II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos has a talk with Gendry about Arya.

“Lad.” Davos said, with a deep breath. “Why in seven hells are you not asleep?” The exhaustion was palpable in his voice. “It is very late. And it is very cold. Tomorrow I have to keep his Grace from getting himself killed because he did what he thought was right. Again. And I would like to be awake for it.”

Gendry wasn’t sure what to say.”I- I’m sorry Ser Davos I’ll-’ But he was cut off.

“Don’t say sorry, tell me what’s wrong.” Davos replied, exasperation tempered with genuine concern.

This caught Gendry off guard. He had never had parents, he’d had a master, and that was different. He would’ve gotten a kick and been told to be quiet, and that would’ve been it. The last person who’d actually wanted to know if he was alright was... _Arya._

A wild and hopeful impulse took hold of him, and he answered truthfully. If he couldn’t trust Davos then who could he trust?

“It's been so long... what if she doesn’t remember me? What if she hates me? What if she doesn’t want what she used to? What if she does?” he sputtered out, surprising himself.

Davos paused a moment, and Gendry was terrified he’d said too much.

“Oh lad.” Was all the older man said, his voice soft and sad. And just as Gendry was about to apologize, say forget it, Davos continued. “Have I told you anything of my wife?”

“No. I didn’t even know you had a wife.” Gendry replied.

“Well I do. Her name is Marya. I was able to go see her just before Stannis brought us north. My youngest two, little Stannis and Steffon, hardly knew my face. She may think me dead now, I’ve no way of knowing if my letter got through.” Davos sighed deeply before continuing.

“I’ve not been the best of husbands, Gendry. Always leaving and coming back. When we married, she knew I was a smuggler. She wasn’t too keen on it, but she knew it meant something to me. She loved me, even the parts that drove her mad. And so I promised her, on our wedding day, that I would always come back. I vow it every time I leave. Every time.”

Gendry sat up, and in the low light of the fire was able to see Davos’ pained and determined face.

“She begged me not to take the onions to Storm’s End. What if you die she said, what will the babe and I do without you? But I swore I’d come back. And I did. Short a few fingers, and with a knighthood, I came back. She wouldn’t speak to me for a week. But after the Battle of the Blackwater she wouldn’t let me out of her sight for two weeks. And this last time, she slapped me right in the face, and while I could still feel the sting, kissed me like she hasn’t in years.” Gendry smiled slowly, as the joy of the memory made Davos chuckle.

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said it to her. ‘I promise I’ll come back’ I say. And do you know what she says to me every time?” He paused. “She says ‘I know you will, my love’.”

“Ser Davos, I’m not sure…” Gendry was interrupted by Davos sitting up abruptly, only to look right at him. Through him, really.

“What I’m telling you lad, is that most of the people this girl has ever known and loved won’t be coming back. Her mother, her father, two of her brothers, most of the people in Winterfell. But you- you can do one thing almost no one can. You can come back. You can tell her you will always come back.”

Davos was getting a little too close to something Gendry was not yet ready to admit, and as Gendry opened his mouth to object, Davos cut him off for a third time.

“Deny it all you want, but you know it’s true. You want her to... ‘be your family’, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t much care in what way?”

Gendry paused, and his voice was impossibly small. “I just want her.” He said, another tear falling.

“Then maybe she hates you and sends you away. Maybe she jumps into your arms the moment she claps eyes on you. Maybe she needs some time. But Gendry, she did not forget you. From what little I know of what you did for each other, of course she will remember you.” Davos laid back down and began arranging his bed roll to get comfortable. “So tomorrow, we’ll find out. But tonight you can’t do anything save drive yourself mad.”

Davos was snoring within a few minutes. Gendry wasn’t sure how to react to this speech. He was grateful, and terrified, and in utter disbelief. _But Davos, she’s the sister of a King._

He laid down, breathing slow and trying to clear his head.

_What if she doesn’t want me to come back._

_What if I don’t want to leave again._


	8. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya's day waiting for Jon to get to Winterfell.

Jon was coming today. She could feel it.

She shot up, vaulting over the large form asleep next to the bed. A dog would’ve been scared of her quick movements, but Ghost merely lifted his head slightly and stared at her.

“He’s coming today, boy.” she said softly, tempering the flash of excitement she’d just shown. Ghost stood immediately at this, and she gave a small grin. She missed Nymeria dearly, and was greatly enjoying Ghost’s company. The direwolf seemed to split his time between the three of them, her, Bran, and Sansa. The guards said he even roamed the castle in the night, checking on each of them in the wee hours of the morning. Sansa had mused why a direwolf was such a mother hen one morning, and Arya knew she was right when she replied “He’s doing what Jon would do.”

She dressed quickly, smalls, shirt, leather jerkin, breeches, her dancing boots. She didn’t even own a dress, her mother would’ve had a fit. She pulled back the top half of her hair. Needle and the Valyrian steel dagger on each hip, with two smaller daggers tucked into the tops of the boots. She left her bag of faces in its hiding spot. _Not even any poison. A girl is no longer no one._

Ghost came with her to breakfast but stayed with Sansa as she left for the yard. She’d been teaching many of the women how to fight. ‘ _Fight’ is too strong a word. At least most of them have stopped dropping their weapons every five minutes._ It was rather difficult to teach them anything too complicated, all but a few insisted on wearing skirts. _Necessity is the fastest teacher, but we still have time. We still have time._

So they drilled. Every day she was in the practice yard, with anyone who wanted to learn. She could not teach them to be soldiers, but she could teach them where to cut and stab, how to stand and move. She taught them how to handle a blade safely after the one of the little ones cut her hand open. They learned together, and she learned that she was able to adapt skills they already had. Gutting a deer, beating a rug, even pushing a broom, all motions she could repurpose for combat.

She even taught some of the men. None of the soldiers at first,  but rather the bakers and the stewards and the grooms who had known her since she was a babe. But soon enough even the knights wanted to try. None of them had ever fought a water dancer before, and didn’t understand how she could do what she did. It became a game. Who would be the first to beat her?

She’d catch people staring at her. Less now, but at first, it was like they’d all seen a ghost. Once, one of the old washerwomen, Audra, had called her Lyanna. Arya asked her if she really looked like her aunt. “You have her hair and her fierceness,” she said. “And you’ve always had her laugh.” Arya thanked the old woman, and was glad at the reminder that she had, at one point, been able to laugh.

After Littlefinger’s execution, she and Sansa had come to an understanding. “You will pass the sentence. I am the sword. Swing me.” she had said. And so, when she saw something, she would tell Sansa. A groom who had beaten and raped his wife. A cook who saw his daughter kissing the neighbour boy and threw her out. A soldier who had hurt a young boy and girl.

The groom went missing one night. He was found the next afternoon, kicked in the head by a particularly aggressive stallion. His wife and the cook’s daughter were now part of Sansa’s personal household, working as maids. The cook suddenly decided to leave Winterfell, nevermind the season. The soldier’s corpse was found with his genitals shoved down his throat. When they burned the body, Arya held the hands of the children he’d assaulted as they set him alight. “He can’t hurt you anymore,” she’d said. “He’ll never hurt anyone again.” The two little ones had become some of Arya’s most dedicated students.

Every day, she felt more and more like herself. Or rather, she felt less and less like No One. She knew what it was like whenever she played the part of the assassin. It was supposed to be terrifying, it was only useful if it was threatening. _I will not be helpless again_ she’d tell herself. _No one else is allowed to die._ On some level she knew that she would have to feel all of it again, that she couldn’t bury it forever. It was getting more difficult to keep it all in. No One had no grief. Arya of House Stark was soon to drown in it.

_Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Her days were the same. She woke from the wolf dreams, she ate with her sister, she trained, she spent an hour with Bran in the godswood. She still said her list every night. _Queen Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Mountain. Melisandre. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr._

She avoided Sansa’s questions about where she’d been, giving only the most brief of explanations after Littlefinger’s trial. Defeating him together marked a new phase of their relationship. Not yet actually close, but they were on the same side unconditionally.

“A black brother found me in Baelor’s squire and recognized me. He disguised me as a boy to join the group of recruits going to the Wall. We were in the Riverlands for a while after that plan went to shit, but eventually I found a ship to take me to Braavos. I trained with the Faceless Men, but I left before I became No One.” Arya watched Sansa’s face throughout this, waiting for her sister’s surprise. But it never came.

Sansa merely nodded, and said “When you’re ready, you can tell me more.” She reached out to grab Arya’s hand gently. Arya needed to run, hide, be anywhere but here.  “I don’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve done Arya, I care that you’re home. We’re all different people than we were before. We may be nothing alike but you are still my sister. I may not have understood how much that means when we were small, but I do now.” Sansa let go of her hand, and it was all she could do not to bolt from the room the moment they were no longer touching.

Eyes staring down, boring a hole into the floor, Arya struggled to say “Thank you.” _I will not lose you again. I will not lose anyone again. No one else is allowed to die._

Arya stood up, and as she crossed the room to the door, Sansa continued. “Who is we?” she asked. Seeing Arya’s fist clench, Sansa’s voice was hesitant and soft. “You said ‘we’ were in the Riverlands. Who is we?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead anyway.” Arya replied, quietly, trying not let her voice fill with the rage and despair she had yet to deal with it. She ran then, and Sansa could just make out a tear on her little sisters face.

She trained as she waited for Jon. This morning a group of knights had come, and she fought them one after the next. They were getting better, learning just how fast she could move, where their longswords were useless. One of them came at her with a warhammer today. He was very bad with it, which was a shame because she would’ve liked the challenge of fighting such a radically different weapon. And as she fought she tried to clear her mind. _Jon’s coming today._ She tried to squash the little hopes rising up at this. _Just Jon._

So she trained. She fought, she showed them what she was doing, drilled them through the unfamiliar moves slowly.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords. No one else is allowed to die. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

As she fought, the memories kept coming back. It was as if to remember Jon, she had to remember everything. She could see Father’s head being forced on to the block before Yoren had pulled her away.  Syrio telling her to run. She could see the Hound, asking for the mercy of a quick death. Could see him killing the Frey men at her back, and giving her his blanket on a particularly cold night. Calling her any vile thing except her name. She could see Lommy with his broken leg, Yoren with an axe in his head, Lady Crane with the waif standing over her. Jaqen changing his face. Hot Pie at the inn, the pie that was supposedly a wolf.

But mostly, she remembered Gendry. Calling her m’lady, laughing as she tried to hit him, teasing her for being short. The damn bull helm he so loved. How he’d let her cry in his arms when she needed, and never treated her differently after. His face when Lord Tywin figured out she was a girl, the fear in his eyes. His proud smile when she cut down a guard right in front of him. _He was never scared of me._ How he held her back from attacking the Hound after the trial. His face when she asked him to come with her. How he fought when the Red Witch took him away.

 _I was just a little girl he had to take care of. That’s why he left as soon as he found someone else to pawn me off on._ She had thought they were friends, had thought… a lot of things. When she left King’s Landing she had just started to actually understand what all of Sansa’s stories said about boys. That you would.. feel something just looking at someone. She trusted him, he wasn’t scared of her. She didn’t like it when people touched her; because if they could touch her they could hurt her. But with Gendry it was different. Like family. But it was most definitely not like when Jon or her father would hug her.

_At best he saw me as his little sister, at worst as an annoying child who wouldn't leave him alone. Sansa’s stories are just stories. I am not the princess. I’m not even the knight. I am Arya Horseface, and what man could want that? Especially after they’ve seen how I fight._

It was best to put that out of her head. She never wanted to be a wife, to run the Lord’s keep and raise his children. But maybe she wanted... _a person_ . That was it, a person who was hers and she was theirs. _That’s not how it works though. What man would want a woman who wouldn’t give him children, who doesn’t even own a dress. A woman who can steal faces._

So she’d decided. She’d do what Ghost had been doing. She’d protect her siblings. She’d be Sansa’s sword and teach her daughters to fight, she’d make sure Bran was eating enough and that no one was bothering him. She’d protect Jon from the dangers he was too good to see coming. She’d heard the whispers, about the mutiny. She would never ask him to be dishonorable, to do anything other than what he thought was right. She knew he couldn’t do it. So she would be dishonorable for him.

_No one else is allowed to die._

A horn sounded, and the knight she was fighting almost got a hit to her chest as she looked towards the sound. They were here.

 


	9. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's party arrives. Arya and Gendry see eachother.

Ghost met Arya in the yard, Sansa trailing behind him.

“No Bran?” Arya asked.

A flit of concern crossed Sansa’s face. “He’s sleeping. Actually sleeping, not seeing. I want to let him, you know he barely gets any these days.”

Arya nodded, she agreed. Bran kept forgetting he was a person, not just the three-eyed crow. Jon would understand after he talked to him.

She had a flash of fear and worry that Jon would be scared of her, or would try to ‘fix’ her. _No. That’s stupid. It’s Jon._

As the procession arrived, Arya stood behind and to the right of Sansa, where Brienne usually stood. As soon as Jon rode through the gate, he smiled hugely, got off his horse as soon as he could.

She couldn’t help it, she ran to him. She was ten years old again, everyone she loved had been taken away but he was here, he was back. He looked older, he looked tired, but the smile was the same one he had that last day she’d seen him.  She crashed into him, could feel him rock back on his heels as her feet left the ground for a moment. She hugged him solidly around his middle, as tight as she could. His arms seemed to crush her, one across her back and the other holding the back her head, his chin tucked. Like he was guarding her from the world.

 _I have to keep him safe._ Some small part of her was glad he was here because it meant _he_ would keep _her_ safe. It was the same part of her she hadn’t listened to in years, not since she left the Hound.

She was glad of his ridiculous cloak, it hid her face as she pressed it into his chest and cried.  _No one else is allowed to die._

He whispered “Thank gods,” quietly, so quietly she wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear it.

All of a sudden she was furious with him, for almost leaving her. She pulled back, holding him loosely now.

“Sansa said you got yourself killed,” she accused, and for the first time since she was back, her rage was hot, fiery, no longer the cold and calculated assassin.

She heard a snort from the party behind Jon, and he himself gave her a small smile. “Aye. I did. I promise I won’t let it happen again.” His voice was quiet and deep, as if he was making an oath.

Arya couldn’t keep up the anger, couldn’t hold back the tears. Her face broke, her eyes red, as she desperately tried to grasp onto something that would make it stop. “You wear your hair more like father now,” she said, not sure if she meant to say it out loud.

“As do you,” he replied. A moment passed as he held her gaze, and then let go. She stepped back behind him and to the side as he introduced Queen Daenerys to Sansa. It felt right, when she stood there. Protecting, shadowing. She didn’t want to lead or rule, she had no idea how. But Jon and Sansa, this was what they were born for. _No one else is allowed to die._

Jon introduced her to the Dragon Queen next, and as she nodded and said hello, she noticed the odd edge of nervousness he had. _He’s not just worried about an alliance. He wants us to like her._ Understanding dawned, and she wanted to roll her eyes and laugh just as much as she wanted to slap some sense into her stupid, stupid brother. _You’re not going to make it easy to keep you alive, are you? You’re going to follow your heart and your honor. Just like father._ Arya had never seen him look at any woman like that, but she’d seen other men do it. Her training to be No One had taught her what love looked like, as it had taught her not to feel it.

After the introduction, Jon turned to her and Sansa, and asked where Bran was.

"He's resting. You'll see." Sansa said.

Clearly worried but accepting her answer, he continued. “I’ve brought back a few more than I left with, I assume we have room for them.”

“Of course." Sansa turned to look at the group. "How many-” Sansa froze. Arya looked to where her sister was, to see a huge man removing his hood to reveal a half burned ruin of a face.

“Hound?!” Arya exclaimed incredulously. Her voice softened as she almost smiled, but it was no less strong. “I thought I left you dead on the side of a hill somewhere.” In her peripheral vision, she saw Jon’s face turn to her and crunch in concern. At the same time, she heard her sister whisper “Sandor.”  She and Jon both turned to Sansa then, Jon’s face full of surprise and Arya’s carefully blank. _Well I’m sure as hell getting that story later._

Clegane sighed, smiled slightly. His voice was soft and apologetic when he looked at Sansa and said “Hello little bird.” But his tone shifted to aggressive, almost playful, as he looked to her and said “And I was dying, not dead. You’ll have to actually finish the job next time, wolf bitch.”

Sansa had seemed to recompose herself, and was about to say something as another voice came from behind Clegane. A voice Arya had never thought to hear again.

“I told you not to call her that,” the smaller man said forcefully, stepping into view. His face was flushed, and he moved awkwardly in the heavy furs. 

_Gendry. No. You're dead._

There was an older man, bald, bearded, who was looking at Gendry with an almost grandfatherly expression of pride and exasperation. Arya noticed the one shortened glove. _Ser Davos. How does Gendry know the man who saved Jon?_ And next to Davos, a man who was clearly a wildling, with a large ginger beard and mad look in his eye. And there, behind them, Brienne and... _Beric Dondarrion_ . _But no Thoros._

Her training noted all the new people as she couldn't stop staring at her old friend. He was taller, just a bit, and his hair much shorter. He had a long dragonglass knife strapped to one hip, and his gloves didn’t fit.  _You're not dead._

Gendry stepped towards her, making eye contact carefully, as if he knew she would bolt any moment. He was right, and the fact that he could tell exactly how much she wanted to run broke her heart a little more than it already was. _Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords._ He stopped about two paces away from her.

“M'lady.” He said, with a small smile. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew that they had an audience, but she was too focused on not shaking to care. _You’re dead._ _Don't call me that._

In a small voice, she started a question “I thought she burned you… how...”

He nodded, “Ser Davos saved me.” He said.

She furiously tried to keep her voice steady as she said, “Why are you here?” She saw a flash of pain in his eyes, before regret came over his face. As he took a deep breath Arya noticed that her chest was so tight she was having trouble breathing.

“I came here for you, Arya.” His honest face was open and hopeful, serious and sad. The ghost of a smile came to his lips as he said the last word.

She gasped air in, it turning into a sob as she tried and failed to keep the tears at bay. She wanted to respond, to move, to think, anything other than just stand there.

He’d called her her _name_ , not m’lady again, or Arry, or Nan, or Weasel. He’d only done that a handful of times at most, when they were absolutely sure they were alone. Nights in the woods after Hot Pie had fallen asleep, when she told him stories about Winterfell, when he told her about Flea Bottom. Once, when they’d been with the brotherhood, he’d woken up in the middle of the night to see her still wide awake next to him. He pulled her close, and sleepily murmured “It’s alright, Arya, you’re safe. We’re safe.” Two days later she told him she could be his family. _He didn’t want me. He’s dead, he was dead. He can’t mean it._

“You didn’t want me,“ she whispered. She was shaking now, and she saw him clench his jaw and blink hard. He shook his head as a tear rolled.

“I always wanted you,” he said softly.

She felt all that pain instantly turn to rage as she hit her boiling point. She couldn’t handle all the grief, the old shattered hopes clashing with the shiny new ones, all the heartbreak from when he left, from when he was taken. She had to turn it into something else before it suffocated her.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped at him, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was an order. Her face hardened into a mask of fury, and broke just as quickly as she caught the look of resigned pain on Gendry's face.

She caught her breath, realized where she was. “I- I can’t- I have to…” she turned away, and started to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm evil I know I'm sorry more coming soon


	10. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has another talk with Gendry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be less than ten thousand words but hey guess not. Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> Please note the updated tags!

As Arya ran, Jon began to go after her, shouting her name. It took only a few steps for him to know she wasn’t going to come back. All eyes turned to Gendry. _Well I wasn’t expecting that._ He thought she’d be angry, yes, but he expected her to punch him in the stomach and then forgive him. _She’s not a child anymore though. This isn’t like when Robb and I hid her toys. He broke her heart._

Davos had walked up next to Gendry, as the blacksmith stared at the ground, jaw clenched, a few tears rolling. Jon could see that Davos clearly felt fatherly toward the young man, as he brought a hand up to Gendry’s shoulder and squeezed. Gendry seemed frozen and rooted to the spot.

Sansa and Clegane spoke at the same time, her voice steely and protective, his merely incredulous.

“Who are you and who are you to my sister?”

“What the fuck did you _do_ to her!?”

Jon did not miss how Sansa and the Hound made eye contact after this, and he especially did not miss her small smile. _Well we’re sure as fuck talking about that later._

Gendry looked up, answering Sansa. “My name is Gendry, my lady.” He glanced back to Clegane, then to Dondarrion, only to stare at his feet. “We travelled together for some time. In the Riverlands. She was… she was my family. She wanted me to come with her, to your mother and brother at the Twins, but I said no.”

Sansa’s face softened in understanding. “She spoke of you.”`

Gendry’s eyes shot up, and his face was somehow both devastated and full of hope. ”She did?” Jon saw his hands clench as he swallowed hard. _He didn’t just break her heart, he broke his own as well._

“Well, no, not really. She’s told me almost nothing of where she’s been. But she mentioned someone who she thought was dead. It’s the only other time I’ve seen her… shaken, since she returned.” Sansa chose her word very carefully.

”You should go after her.” Daenerys said, her quiet voice carrying through the courtyard. It was an order, a gentle one, but an order still. All eyes looked to her, everyone had been so distracted by the scene in front of them that even the Dragon Queen had faded from focus. Jon kept himself from smiling. _She’s not used to being in the background._

Jon looked to the Queen, surprise and caution on his face. Daenerys lifted her hand only a few inches from her waist, hardly looking at him, and he stilled. It would’ve bothered him before, her assuming he’d follow her lead. But no longer. _Seems Gendry’s not the only one who’s fucked._ She walked past him, until she was just in front of Gendry, Davos still at his side. He dropped to one knee. “Your Grace.” He said.

“Rise,” she commanded, and it was only Jon who noted the faint note of compassion in her voice. _She promised she wouldn’t hurt him._ Gendry stood, slowly and nervously, not raising his eyes until Daenerys pulled his chin up with one finger.

“You love her. You should go after her.” Her voice had a strength and a sincerity about it that Jon knew was reserved for the times when she wanted to be gentle, when she wanted to persuade instead of command.

Gendry stuttered, clearly unnerved by the Queen taking such a close interest. _After the last queen who took an interest, I can’t fault him._ “Pardon me, your grace, but you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew who I was.” He tilted his head a bit at the end of his sentence, not making eye contact.

She smiled, a small, fleeting thing. “Your name is Gendry. You are a blacksmith from Flea Bottom. You are the reason I was able to rescue good men. You are also the bastard son of the Usurper, Robert Baratheon.”

Gendry’s eyes went wide with panic, before looking to Jon.

“Aye, I told her. I thought just hoping she didn’t find out and waiting for it to be a surprise wasn’t the best long term plan.” Jon tried to look apologetic, but suspected he just looked annoyed.

Davos cut in, exasperation in his voice even as there was fear in his eyes. “Especially since you keep bloody _telling_ people!” He looked quickly to Daenerys, realizing that by shouting at Gendry he’d also shouted in her face. “Sorry, y’grace.”

Daenerys’s eyes twinkled as she shook her head, dismissing it. “I, of all people, cannot hold a child accountable for their father’s sins.” She paused, and looked over her shoulder to him and smiled before continuing. “Though you should thank Jon, for opening my eyes to that fact.”

Jon tried not to show the surge of love and pride that rode through him, but too late, Sansa was looking at him far too closely now, eyebrows arching. It startled him, as it was the exact look her mother gave him whenever she thought something was his fault. _Which was quite often._

Gendry just sighed, and said “But I’m still just a bastard,” as he shrugged.

“And bastards aren’t allowed to love?” Daenerys’s voice now contained some fire, daring Gendry to disagree with her. Jon breathed in sharply at this, eyes snapping to Daenerys. _Well Sansa definitely saw that._

“Not King’s sisters, no, they’re not.” Gendry said, his head shaking, his eyes desperate.

 _And we’ve found the problem._ “Yes they are,” he said, stepping forward to next to Daenerys and looking at Gendry, who was staring at him like he was no longer speaking the Common Tongue. He turned slightly, keeping his eyes on Gendry as long as he could.

“Sansa, would you mind showing the Queen and her Hand to your solar? We have many things to discuss, I’ll be along soon.” He turned to the group of people behind Gendry “Tormund could you tell Ser Jorah it’s alright to come now.” The wildling nodded and began to walk back outside the walls.

At Sansa’s questioning glance, he said to her “It seems we were wrong as to which member of our party would cause a scene.” As her eyebrows arched ever higher, he merely said “Tyrion.”

“You’re bringing back men from _everyone’s_ past then,” she said. “It’s fine. Tyrion was never anything but kind to me.”

He nodded and turned to Daenerys,“Would you mind me going to fix this? It shouldn’t take long,” he said dryly.

She smiled, amusement playing across her face. “Go. The war can wait.”

He flushed and looked down as he smiled with a breath of laughter. Davos looked at him pointedly, and Gendry seemed confused, but he would get there soon. _I really must get better at this._

“Come with me Gendry,” he said gently. He walked inside, leaving the sounds of the courtyard behind. They walked side by side,  and Jon asked him a quiet question.

“That was why you said no, wasn’t it? Because she was a King’s sister.”

Gendry nodded, swallowing. “I don’t think I could’ve admitted it at the time, but yes.”

“That’s alright. You were young. And you were right. Her lady mother wouldn’t have let you know her. Not without our father there to tell her to. Lady Catelyn was nothing if not proper.” Jon noticed a sliver of resentment still in his voice. 

They walked in silence for a few moments, Jon purposely taking them on a slightly longer route than he needed too.

“I’ve had to reconsider what’s actually important lately. Getting murdered does shift your worldview somewhat.” He took a heavy breath in. “Before I left for the Wall, I was obsessed with my bastard birth, and I believed them when they said it made me lesser. Arya was the only one who told me it didn’t matter what my name was, that I was her brother all the same. That being a bastard didn’t mean anything I didn’t let it mean. I didn’t believe her until very recently.”

Jon turned down a small hallway. It was a little more out of the way, but he wanted to take Gendry to the door he and Arya always used when they were small.

“We are about to be attacked by an army of the dead that has already killed one of the Queen’s dragons. There is an evil, treacherous woman on the Iron Throne waiting to cut all of our throats in our sleep. And if neither of those things kill us, Winter is here, and we are not ready. We have no time for propriety.”

Gendry’s eyes were questioning, but he was clearly content to let Jon keep talking as they walked.

“Arya gave me the greatest gift anyone could. She was my family. More than Robb or even our father. It was me and her on the outside looking in. I was a bastard who wanted to be true born, she was a lady who wanted to be a warrior.”

He stopped them in front of a very large wooden door that clearly led outside. He put one hand on the handle, and the other on Gendry’s shoulder.

“You must see that she loves you. I left her when she was a carefree, wild little girl. I just met the fierce young woman she’s become and I still know that she loves you.” Gendry looked away at this, and Jon didn’t continue until he caught his eye again.

”I don’t know what hells she had to go through to get home. But she is home now, and she is my family. And you are hers.” Jon paused for a moment and shook his head. “Do you really think I give a _fuck_ that you’re a bastard?”

Jon opened the door and pointed. “Walk that way and you’ll see the weirwood in just a moment. Its right next to a small pool. It’s where she and I went when we needed to run. She’ll be there.”

Gendry had gotten over his shock, finally, and as Jon removed his hand from the younger mans shoulder, he saw something shift in his bearing. Gendry’s face relaxed, and his shoulders fell back. He took a deep breath.

Just before he stepped out, he turned and said, “Thank you, y'grace.”

Jon smirked and shook his head. “Assuming you survive the next twenty minutes, I think you should start calling me Jon. I would like us to be brothers, as our fathers were.”

Gendry met his eye, holding the moment, searching his face for insincerity. Finally he nodded. “Thank you, Jon.”

He stepped out into the godswood, and Jon closed the door behind him.


	11. Gendry III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry finds Arya in the godswood.

As Gendry walked through the trees, he knew he only had a minute or so to think of what he was going to say.

When they broke their fast this morning, the others kept trying to give him advice.

“If any of you was someone I’d want to take advice from, I already would’ve asked.” Gendry said.

"But lad! If you compliment her beauty without also complimenting her fighting she'll take it as an insult," Tormund told him. "You tell us stories of her, she doesn't sound like the other southron women. You need to woo her like one of the Free Folk."

"And how's that working with Brienne?" Gendry snapped back playfully.

Tormund's face fell instantly. "Fuck you," he said, his voice colorless.

Beric laughed, and said “He has a point though. You need to show her you think more of her than just her beauty. You also need to show her you want to know the woman she is, not merely who she was.”

Gendry looked down at his hands at this, clearly uncomfortable. “She was two-and-ten last time I saw her. I don’t know if she’s beautiful.”

“She will be.” Clegane said, and everyone turned to him, expecting him to continue.

When he didn’t, Tormund suggested something “...because her sister is beautiful?”

“She looks nothing like her sister, you twat. No.” He turned to Gendry. “You were, what, seven-and-ten when you saw her last?”

“Yes,” he responded, wary of Tormund’s glare. “She was my best friend, it wasn’t- it wasn’t like-”

“We know, we know, shut up. A girl of two-and-ten was your best friend when you were seven-and-ten. You fought together, survived together. It was five years ago? Six? And you thought she was dead all that time?”

Not waiting for Gendry’s answer, he continued. “So you left your home on a moments notice for the chance to help this girl’s brother. Not her, her brother. You went all the way to the damn Wall before you even found out she was alive. And now, you’ve gone all the way to fucking Winterfell on the off chance she doesn’t hate you and kill you on sight. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Gendry said again, flushing.

“You care for her too bloody much for you to think she’s anything other than beautiful.” He finished, getting up and leaving the rest of them dumbfounded.

Later, on the road, Jorah rode beside him, the much more skilled rider easily keeping pace as Gendry shifted and drifted attempting to keep his seat. “I wanted to talk to you, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said hesitantly.

“More advice on how to woo women?” Gendry asked, already on his guard.

“No actually. Advice on what to do when she loves you, but she will never be _in_ love with you.” He said, his voice tired and sad.

Gendry looked to the older man, a questioning look on his face. “What do you mean?”

Jorah smiled apologetically, and continued. “What to do when you she wants you as her confidante, her protector, her friend; but not as a woman loves a man. You need to make the decision now. Before you see her.”

“What do I need to decide?” Gendry asked, not understanding where the older man was going with this.

“What is more important to you- that you are the man she loves, or that you are in her life at all.” With this, Jorah rode off, leaving him alone to contemplate.

 _I just want her. I never thought I’d get any more time with her than I already got,_ he thought as he looked up through the trees to the grey sky.

It was beautiful here, a threatening kind, but beauty nonetheless. He’d never seen anything like this, but it was just as Arya had described it. Old and wild and waiting. _She was right. You can feel the old gods here._

Just as Jon had said, he soon came to a clearing with a pool.The weirwood tree was enormous, its face haunting. She was seated against it, her knees curled to her chest with her arms around them. She’d only have to look up to see him.

He stopped walking once he was perhaps five paces away. He thought for a moment, then sat down on the ground, snow be damned, and said nothing. He knew she’d heard him at least.

After what could’ve been a minute or an hour, she looked up, and he could only smile in relief. Her face was red from crying, and he was caught off guard again by how much she’d changed. _Clegane was right._

“How did you even find me?” she said, and while the fire from before was still in her eyes, the rest of her was exhausted.

“Jon brought me. Didn’t even have to ask,” he said, trying a small bit of teasing. He didn’t want her to run again, didn’t want to overwhelm her.

She scowled, and put her head down again. Another eternity of silence later, she looked up again, putting her arms down.

“I know you weren’t lying to me,” she said, her voice sad and measured. “But I think you’re lying to yourself,” she challenged, looking him right in the eyes.

His face fell, he didn’t even try to hide it. “I’m not lying at all!!” he said forcefully, insulted and angry. He had intended to stay calm, but that had never really worked out for him before, had it?

“You have to be! If you wanted me, why wouldn’t you come with me?!” she shouted. Her legs were down now, her fists clenched as she leaned forward from the tree. The pain in her eyes was killing him.

“Because I couldn’t watch!” he yelled back, standing abruptly as his temper flared, that energy needing to go somewhere, and he almost slipped in the snow. The anger went out of him almost immediately, replaced by sadness and a pleading look in his eyes.  “I couldn’t do it, Arya.”

This answer seemed to catch her off guard, and he watched as her anger melted into a suspicious confusion. “Watch what?”

He shook his head, looked away, and then looked back to her. “They wouldn’t have let us be friends. A bastard blacksmith and a Princess of the North? It wouldn’t have happened.” She began to argue, finger pointed and mouth open, but he cut her off, stepping forward once with harsh gesture. “No, listen to me. I’m not doubting that you would’ve wanted to. But especially as you got older, all anyone would see was that your best friend was a man grown, and there would be... talk.”

She seemed taken aback by this, confusion spreading across her face, turning to embarrassment as she understood and blushed. Gendry tried furiously not to think about what that meant.

He took one more step forward, slowly. _Careful,_ he told himself. “Eventually we wouldn’t be-” he stopped, not finding the words, but gesturing between the two of them to show the connection, “-us. I’d just be the blacksmith you knew during the war. And I would have to watch you become the little lady you never wanted to be. Watch you marry some lord you didn’t know who didn’t deserve you.”

He softened his voice as he internally begged her to understand. “And I knew I couldn’t do it. It was easier-” he stopped, seeing the flash of betrayal on her face,”-not easy, not at all. But easi _er_ , to say goodbye right then.”

He stared into her eyes, waiting for a response. Her face would’ve been a stone mask if he hadn’t known her. Her jaw was set, her eyes unwavering. She was deciding if she believed him. He knew she hadn’t decided yet when she spoke.

“If that’s true, then what’s different now?” Her voice was low, steely, but he could see the hope in her eyes as she stood.

He smiled just a little at this, before looking at his hands. “I thought you were dead. I thought you must’ve died at the Red Wedding. Once Jon told us you were alive-” he breathed out heavily. “Your brother won’t stop us. He just wants you to be happy.”

Her face had started to fall from its icy mask; but she got it under control quickly. “And what do _you_ want?” She asked him, her attempted emotionless tone wavering a bit.

He was thinking of the advice he’d been given in the last day, especially Davos and Jorah’s. _I don’t want to tell her I’ll come back, because I never want to leave again._ Suddenly, he knew exactly what to say.

“You,”  He stepped forward once more, carefully, so that he was still just out of reach. “Whatever you want that to mean. I would be your family, or your best friend, or just your brothers blacksmith. However you want me, Arya, I’m going to be right here until you tell me to go.” His voice was quiet and sure and full of love.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, shaking her head at him.

“Excuse me, I think I would know best what I mean! I’m not lying Arya, why would I?” He asked, incredulous, exasperation feeding into a desperate, short laugh.

“Well if you’re not lying then you’re not thinking! I’m not the same little girl you left with the Brotherhood, a lot of things have happened since then.”  Her anger was dying in spurts, fading into despair. “You wouldn’t make that promise if you knew what I was now.”

He paused, and spoke softly. “I know you’re not the same little girl. Just- just look at you…” he said, looking her up and down, eyes darkening. He knew he’d made a misstep as a self-conscious grimace came on her face. She crossed her arms, one across her middle, the other diagonal on her chest trying to cover herself. _She thinks… she doesn’t even know does she?_

He looked at her with all seriousness and said “You’re beautiful.” His voice was steady and true, a bit huskier than he had intended it to be. And though she wouldn’t meet his eye, he saw her breathe in quickly.

 _Fuck fuck fuck she’s not ready for that._ He continued in a lighter tone, trying to turn it into a joke. “I mean you-  you grew up. Well, not ‘up’, but-” he saw the flash of indignant fury he remembered as she went to punch him in the stomach. He was ready for it, and caught her wrist.

She moved then, twisted from her hips, _don’t look at her hips,_ and he was flat on his back with a Valyrian steel dagger at his throat before he understood he had moved. _How the fuck did she do that. Wait. Why can’t I feel my fingers._

She was kneeling by his head, her body held in an almost feline pose. Her face was… terrifying. It wasn’t her anymore, there was nothing but deadly grace and dispassionate violence there. Like she could’ve slit his throat with the same ease and consequence as she could cut an apple. His eyes widened, and her face returned to itself, a strange look of wary defiance. _It’s just a mask, it’s not her._

“How the _fuck_ did you do that?” He asked, grinning widely, wonder in his eyes.

She looked surprised. _She thought I’d run._ Her eyes brightened, a relieved and hopeful smile crossing her face. She laughed, a small, buoyant thing, seeming to lift her. _Maybe Tormund was right._

“You’re not scared of me,” she said, amazement in her voice. She sat back, sheathing the dagger, staring at him like he wasn’t real.

He sat up slowly, turning slightly to face her and stretching his hand out as the feeling came back. “Why would I be scared of you?” he asked, and though he had intended it to be playful, as he looked into her eyes his voice was nothing but sincere.

Her smile faded, her face becoming serious and apprehensive. “Do you think…I could tell you where I’ve been?” she asked.

“Yes.” He smiled then, as the relief flooded through him. His face turned apologetic though, as he asked “Could we go inside though? I’m freezing my arse off.”

She laughed out a “Yes,” as she stood, and there, looking up at her, it was like the world went still for a moment. He knew he would remember this for the rest of his life, as he finally admitted what he’d known all along.

_Gods I love her._


	12. Arya III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya begins to tell Gendry where she's been since she saw him last.

When he’d said that he would be there until she told him to go, part of her wanted to run into his arms right then. She stopped herself, chastising the childish hope. _He never would have said that if he knew about the faces. Or if he saw me execute Littlefinger._ But then, when she knocked him down, she became No One again, just for a moment, just to see. And he didn’t run. He just looked surprised. _He laughed._

But then he’d… looked at her. Really looked, like the way men would look at the whores she saw in Braavos. _No, not like that. Those men just saw a cunt for the night. He was looking at_ me.

She was Arya Horseface, she was dressed in men’s clothing,  and she hadn’t even smiled at him yet when he said it. _And yet he thinks I’m beautiful._ She would’ve known he was telling the truth even without training to be No One, this was Gendry, _her_ Gendry. He wasn’t a good liar before, and the years had not changed that.

She had never prepared for the possibility of someone finding her beautiful. Not while she was wearing her own face, at least. She felt as if she must be missing something.

She caught herself looking at him back, as he sat up in the snow.

 _His face has changed. Settled._ _He’s handsome._

Back in Braavos she’d talked to some whores once, to try to understand desire. She picked out a face especially for it, a young woman her age, a plain girl with light hair. She understood how fucking happened, but she never understood _why_ you would do it unless you wanted a child."Do you ever enjoy it?", she’d asked. They all laughed, and said yes, sometimes, of course. When a man was handsome, or skilled, or when they got to choose who would share their bed.

She’d asked them many questions that night. Eventually the mistress of the house told her she could either buy them for herself, join their profession, or get out. The mistress stared at her as if she’d grown a second head when she pulled out enough coin to buy every girl in the house. It was a small fortune, and she’d stolen it from the house of a man who worked for the Iron Bank. _He’s got more than enough. And he kicked a child, he deserved it._

The mistress closed and barred the door, and for the first time since the brothel had opened there wasn’t a man in the building the entire night. They sat in a rough circle around the room, drinking and laughing, and every question she asked seemed to lead to three new ones and two arguments.

She found out that desire for someones body often had little to do with the person inside it. It can help, they’d said. But it’s not important. What does wanting feel like she asked, and they told her about a pool of heat in between your legs, about hearts thumping too fast and breath coming too slow. They told her stories about many, many things she never would have thought to ask about, and the sheer range of possibilities of what people could want was staggering. She took careful note of all of it, as if she was learning about a new poison at the House of Black and White.

One of the whores, Marissa, pulled her aside by the end of the night.

“You look as if we’re teaching you a new language. Forgive me, but am I right in thinking you’ve never _wanted_ a man?”

“Yes,” she said. This wasn’t her face , she could be truthful.

“Have you ever wanted a woman then?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone. I know when someone is handsome or pretty, but I don’t think I  want to _do_ anything about it.” She thought of Gendry unbidden, in the forge with his arms bare. She tried to stop replaying the memory but was unsuccessful.

“You don’t think?” Marissa replied, one eyebrow quirking knowingly.

Arya wasn't sure if it was the face she wore, the subject matter, or the one glass of wine she had accepted, but her control slipped for a moment as she blushed profusely.

“Someone you care for then?” the whore prodded further.

“Very much,” Arya replied tentatively.

“I used to know a girl like that.” Arya felt her eyebrows lift in surprise. “She only felt it sometimes. She would say that she didn’t want to fuck, she wanted to fuck _him.”_

 _Oh,_ she thought, while staring down into Gendry’s eyes as he laughed. _I think I understand now._

She attempted to banish that understanding from her mind as she asked him if she could tell him what had happened to her. She wasn’t sure she could handle it. She’d just found out he was alive, that he hadn’t wanted to leave her. That he’d want more, that she might return those feelings, was too much.

She decided she’d show him Winterfell as she told him her story. It would be easier, having something else to focus on as she talked. It also meant she wouldn’t have to look at his face the whole time, wouldn’t have to see his horror. _I have to know if he means it. I have to tell him everything._

She walked them out of the godswood silently, thinking about how to start,  her face pinched in concentration.

“Arya? You alright?” he asked worriedly. “You don’t have to tell me right now.” His voice was somehow half-teasing and half actual reassurance.

“No, I want to. I just don’t know where to start,” she said, frowning.

He shrugged and said, “Then just start from when I was sold to Red Witch. I already know everything before that anyway.”

She let out a small breath of worry. _Not everything._

She began with running away from the Brotherhood. She showed him the great hall and the kitchens as she told him about getting kidnapped by the Hound, how she thought he was taking her to King’s Landing at first, how they settled in together. How it took her a while to notice that he hadn't once called her an actual name, hers or any others.

Then she turned them down a smaller side hallway, as she didn’t want an audience for this next bit. As soon as he realized she was about to talk about the Red Wedding, he stopped her. He tentatively put a hand to her arm, ever so lightly turning her towards him. His touch was gentle, he was wary of scaring her.

He hadn’t said anything, and she realized. _He wants to see my face for this part._ She walked him just a few more paces to where she knew the maids had a bench, so they could rest while carrying things across the castle. They sat down, his feet on the floor and his face turned to her. She sat on the bench with her legs crossed in front of her, facing him instead of the opposite wall. It did not escape her notice that her knees were just barely brushing his leg.

She told him what she’d seen them do to her mother, her brother and his new wife. She explained how she recognized some of the Stark soldiers from Winterfell as they died. She wanted to look away when she told him about the blind rage, the willingness to die if it meant she took the Freys with her, but she couldn’t. Her voice was an odd mix of bitterness and acceptance when she told him how the Hound had had to knock her out to stop her.

Her eyes went cold and her face stone as she said. “But I gave them what they deserved in the end. The North Remembers.”

She studied his face carefully then, and he looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know if he should.

“Say it,” she said, challenging him. _If he asks, I will tell him anything. Everything._

His eyes were full of grief and sadness. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

She was taken entirely by surprise, and clearly it showed on her face.

“You’ve had to watch both your parents and your brother die. That’s horrible.” He was nothing but sincere, and she was genuinely concerned he hadn’t heard her last sentence.

“I just told you that I was the one who murdered every adult male Frey left. You heard that part, right?” She asked, as if speaking to a slow child.

“Yes, I heard you.They deserved it, the traitorous weasels. They violated guest rights, they mutilated your family. If you had gotten there even a day earlier you would’ve been-” He stopped, breathing hard and trying to bring his temper under control as he looked away and back again. She wanted to comfort him, but she wasn’t sure how to.

On impulse, she grabbed his hand with hers. He instantly shifted his hand so that he was holding hers just as much as she was holding his. She couldn’t quite place the look in his eyes, he was somehow relieved, terrified, angry, and joyous all at once.

“I thought the Frey’s killed you for a very long time.” He said, his voice wavering.

“But they didn’t,” she replied, squeezing his hand and layering steel into her voice.

“But they would’ve,” he shot back, and she saw a mad fury in his eyes. _He mourned me. He never stopped._ “I’m glad they’re dead. I’m only sorry you had to do it alone.”

She let go of his hand then, and saw a flash of sadness in his eyes as she stood.

“Get up,” she ordered. She shouldn’t have been surprised when he did so without question.

She hugged him, having to stand on her tiptoes to get her arms around his neck, her face pressed into his shoulder and facing away. He hesitated, but then his arms wrapped around her back gently, awkwardly. She was worried she’d gotten this wrong somehow, that he didn’t want her to hug him.

She pulled her head back, and began to shrink to the floor. “I- I’m sorry, you don’t want this…”

His hold on her tightened immediately, and he shook his head as he pleaded, “No, no, I do, it’s just... “ he paused, looking for the right word, his face apologetic. “I don’t want to overstep. You never did like people touching you.”

Her heart started beating too fast then, and she jumped back up, her face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as her arms tightened.

“You don’t count,” she said in a small voice, and she could feel him inhale sharply.

He picked her up, her feet entirely off the ground, her legs dangling awkwardly, but she didn’t care. She was clutching him as tight as she could, and she knew he was not doing the same only out of fear he would hurt her. His arms were warm and solid crossed over her lower back, pulling her flush to him from hip to shoulder. His fists were just below her ribs, and she could feel him hesitate at first before uncurling them, each finger holding her. His cheek was pressed to the side of her head, his breath ghosting across her neck, ragged and slow.

 _No one else is allowed to die,_ she thought. _You are not allowed to die._

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, just breathing and holding on, proving to one another they were both still alive. _He’s here. He came here for me._ Finally, he put her down and they pulled apart slowly. She saw that he had cried a bit, just like her. She smiled, and as she pulled her hands down, one stopped on his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear.

He placed his hand over hers. His face had a small half smile that slowly melted into a look of kind solemnity, of patience and love. She was frozen on the spot, staring into his eyes. It was like the world outside of this moment didn’t exist. Or rather, it existed, but it didn’t matter. Just for right now, everything else could wait.

She knew what would happen in the songs. He was supposed to kiss her now. _But this is not a song. And I haven’t told him everything yet._

She pulled her hand down, smiling, keeping his hand in her own as she turned to keep walking down the hallway.

He spoke once they had reached the main corridor. His voice was playful and light, and exactly what she needed. “So what happened when you woke up after Clegane knocked you out? Please tell me you hit him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so clearly I've got a headcanon that Arya's demisexual, what do ya'll think?


	13. Gendry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya continues her tale, and shows Gendry a face.

After their… moment, in the hallway, Gendry noticed that it became much easier for Arya to tell him things. Whereas before her sentences were short and clipped, now as she explained she could look him in the eye, even make jokes. Horribly dark jokes about death and murder, but still jokes.

She held his hand as they walked.  She had just finished telling him about her journey to the Eyrie when someone turned a corner and began to walk towards them in the hallway. He started to pull away, but she gripped tighter and looked at him fiercely.

“I’ll let go if you want me to, but only if _you_ want me to. I don’t care if they see and you shouldn’t either,” she said, both challenging and pleading with him.

He nodded, and squeezed her hand for a moment as they kept walking. _Jon took me to her. I don’t need to hide._ He was still scared and worried that this was a trap or a trick, but decided he would worry about that later. _She wants me here. Right now that’s enough._

After she told him about the duel between Brienne and the Hound, about leaving him for dead, she began to look nervous again. He gave her a questioning glance and a smile as he said, “Nothing you tell me is going to change my mind,” with all the sincerity he could muster.

She breathed deeply, a very young and very scared look on her face. “I have to- to back up a bit for this part to make sense. Do you remember Jaqen H’ghar?” she asked tentatively.

“You used the deaths he owed to get us out of Harrenhal, I remember. Never did understand what that meant though,” he replied, a worried tone entering his voice.

As she walked them through the servants quarters, she told him a part of the story she hadn’t before. She pulled an iron coin out of a hidden pocket, and let him hold it. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It only bought one thing she said, help from any man from Braavos. And then she told him how Jaqen had changed his face.

When he just nodded at this, she looked at him, puzzled.

“Arya, we’ve both seen a man come back from the dead. I’ve seen your brother’s scars, and I believe him when says he was brought back as well. I’ve seen corpses run and fight and I’ve seen dragons,” he explained. His face darkened as he went on. “There are some things I should tell you about the Red Woman, later, but believe me when I say I have no trouble believing in magic.”

He watched her face cool into a mask of barely controlled fury. _Gods she looks like her brother when she does that._ “She hurt you,” she said. It was not a question.

_What if she tells me what Clegane did. That it wasn’t bad, that I should stop whinging._

“Yes,” he answered. He could feel himself be blanketed by weariness, his shoulders slumping forward as he swallowed hard and looked into her eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she replied, her soft voice incongruous with the storm behind her eyes. “How about we go back to my quarters? There’s something I need to show you there anyway.”

He did not miss the resigned tone of the last few words of that sentence, but nodded his agreement.

He surprised himself then, reaching out with his free hand to pull her to him. He felt her hand curl onto his chest as he kissed her forehead. It was small, and sweet, and felt natural as breathing. He released her after only a moment or two, squeezing her hand quickly.

She was smiling, a tiny, flickering thing like a candle in a breeze. As if she couldn’t quite believe what was happening.   _Makes two of us._

As they walked towards her quarters, he could see the castle change. This was where the lord and his family lived, that much was clear from the tapestries on the walls, let alone the guards at seemingly random intersections and doors. They passed one hallway that had 10 guards bracketing a large door. Some of the guards were dressed very differently than the others.

“Sansa’s solar. My rooms are just around the corner.” Arya explained as they passed. They heard a very loud and distinctly northern-sounding “FOR FUCKS SAKE”’ coming from the room.

Arya burst out a laugh at this, childlike glee covering her face. He stared at her, amazed. He’d seen that look on her face maybe twice before, the danger they were in never allowed such unrestrained joy. _I could watch her laugh forever._

She turned to him, still smiling, seeing the awed look on his. “What is it?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“Everyone is different. But still the same,” she said, shaking her head.

She stopped at a door, opened it and led him in inside. It was well furnished, with plain but well- made furniture. But it didn’t look lived in, they were almost no belongings anywhere. The only evidence that this was in fact her room was the feather bed piled with furs, _No, not looking at that,_ and the whetstone, cloth, and oil on the trunk.

She dropped his hand as she barred the door, and then walked over to the table to sit down. He sat at the other chair. _I’m in a Princesses bedroom. I should be worried I’m going to be gelded, but I know she’d protect me. Put that in the songs._

She looked over to him, and he asked, “How are they the same?” He just wanted to watch her smile a little longer.

She was the most animated she’d been yet. “Jon is still Jon. He’s older, he’s in love, and the way he carries himself- he’s not sulking anymore. But under all that… it’s just Jon. Doing the right thing even though it got him killed. Bellowing at what I’m sure he thought was nonsense, but Sansa will explain why we need it to be ‘proper’. And Sansa-she’s cynical now, she schemes. But she never let it make her cruel. She does what she thinks is necessary.” She breathed out quickly, and was lost in the thought.

“Sometimes Bran forgets who he is, forgets that he was a boy before he was the three-eyed raven. But I know that he’s still in there, because I can make his eyes smile, even if he won’t. And fucking Clegane is the same as ever, alive when he shouldn’t be and daring me to kill him. The piece of shit.” She stopped, seemingly coming out of a trance. The smile that had been chasing all her previous thoughts faded as she turned to him.

“And then there’s you,” she said, frowning.

Before he could ask what in seven hells _that_ meant, she shook her head and asked, “Can I keep telling you?” He nodded, and she stood up, began to pace in front of him.

“After I left the Hound, I made my way to Gulltown. There, I found a ship captained by a Braavosi. I showed him the coin, and said the words just like Jaqen told me. He said the right words back, and he brought me to Braavos, to the House of Black and White.”

She stopped in front of him, staring. _This is the part she’s been worried about the whole time._

“Arya… clearly you just told me something important, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. What words? What’s the House of Black and White?”

She began speaking in that short way again, all the ease and comfort they’d found slipping away.

“Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris. ‘All men must die’ and ‘all men must serve’. The House of Black and White is the temple to the Many-Faced God. Its where the Faceless Men are from. The assassins.”

She stood in front of him, her face becoming more and more distant. _I’m losing her. She’s getting ready for me to run._

“What’s the Many-Faced God?” He asked, quietly. _This time I have to be calm. I have to._

She pulled her hands away and stepped back. “He’s the God of Death.” She was staring at him as if she was waiting for something, and he didn’t let his face do anything.

“Why were you there?” He asked, hesitantly. He wasn’t actually stupid, he had put the pieces together. A temple for the God of Death, assassins, Arya’s newfound ability to flip him onto his arse. That look on her face…

“I was training to be No One. A Faceless man.”

He wanted to stand up, to hold her again, tell her he didn’t care, she was here now. But he knew moving at all would spook her.

“You’re one of them. You can change your face?” He asked. It seemed like the right question in the moment.

“I’m not one of them,” she snapped to him, defensive. _Almost as if she’s trying to convince herself as well._

He held up his hands, a sign of surrender. 

She breathed deeply, calming herself. “To become one of them, you become No One. You must let go of everything you used to be. For a long time that was what I wanted.”

She stepped towards him, a small step, but more than he had hoped for. He wouldn’t have been able to reach her, but only just barely. “It was easier to be No One than to be Arya Stark. I could leave my dead behind. I didn’t have to think about my father, or the Red Wedding, or- “ she took a ragged breath, “-or you.”

He stared at her intensely as she stepped forward once more, bringing her within arms reach. “I learned to fight with staff and blade, to spy, and sneak, and steal. I can kill a man without him ever seeing me. I can make it look like an accident. I can make it look like anything. I learned poisons and their antidotes. I nearly died, and I got the woman who saved me killed. “

She paused here. Just breathing for a moment, and she was searching his face, studying it like it she would never see it again. _Why is she so sure I’m going to leave._

“And I can change my face. I need to show you.” she said.

“You don’t have to Arya, I believe you,” he responded. Obviously this was tormenting her, she didn’t need to do this for him.

“No, I do have to. I have to tell you everything or I’ll be worried you won’t mean it.” She said very quickly, refusing to look him in the eye. “And it’s different. Seeing it is different than just knowing.”

_If this is what I need to do to prove that I’m not going anywhere, I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it._

“Alright,” he said as he nodded slowly. She went to the trunk and pulled out a finely-made leather bag. Bringing it back to the table, she stopped as she was opening it.

“Gendry I- I’ve seen peoples faces when I take it off. The shock, the horror. I know you think this won’t matter, but it does. I’m going to use the face of a woman about twice my age with blue eyes, alright?” She was nervous as she said all of this, speaking slowly and carefully.

Just as she went to open the bag again, he grabbed her arm. _Gentle, gentle, careful._ “Wait, Arya.”

She let go of the bag, and he went on, worry and sadness in his eyes. “This isn’t going to hurt you, is it?”

Her head tilted, as if she was realizing something and needed to stand back from it so as to appreciate it.

"No,” she said slowly, as she looked at him like he was something rare and profound.

She sat down across from him, pulled the bag to her and opened it. She pulled out… a face. It really did look like it had just been attached to a person. She held it up with both hands, one on each side. She looked into his eyes, took a breath, and nodded.

_Don’t move. Don’t gasp. Don’t do anything._

She pulled it over her face, and became someone else. She got taller, wider, her eyes and skin  were a different color. He thought he was ready, but he wasn’t. He breathed in harshly, a steady, thin stream, and his eyes widened just a little. He had to stop his fingers from curling into fists.

_What the fuck. How the fuck._

Forcing himself to unclench, he felt like he needed to say something, anything. “Arya? It’s still you in there, right?”

“Yes, you dumb bull. You watched me put it on.” The woman said, her voice deep and throaty, her tone a cautious kind of playful. _It is Arya, who else would still know to call me Bull._

“I’m going to take it off now,” she said. Her hand grabbed at the base of the neck, pulling up and back in one swift movement.

It was Arya again. He sat there and just breathed, staring at the table as she put the face away in its bag. Once she’d put it back in the trunk, he looked up.

Her face was agonizing to see. It was worse than the pain and the tears of the courtyard. She stared at him forcefully, a thin veneer of defiance attempting to protect a sea of vulnerabilities.

“Now do you understand?” she said, her voice apologetic and tired. She could hardly look at him. “You can leave if you want, I won’t stop you.”

He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “Have you told me everything yet?” he asked.

“No. There are a few more things,” she replied, her voice carefully hopeful.

“And you’ll be waiting for me to leave until you do tell me everything?” he said, standing up  and walking to her.

“Yes,” she said, sounding tired and defeated.

“Alright then,” he said, nodding decidedly. _I’m not leaving her side until she believes me._ “You’ll tell me the last of it as we go try to find me some different clothes. I look like a wildling, these don't even fit, and I have nothing to sleep in for tonight.”

Her eyes were  full of relief and hope as a smile slid onto her face. “I can- We can do that. Yes.” She paused, and looked embarrassed as she put her hand back into his. She looked up to him and said “It helps to be touching you.”

He couldn’t help it, he grinned from ear to ear. _I shouldn’t read too much into that; but seven hells if she means it…_

“Shut up,” she said defensively as they walked out of the room.

_She’s back. We’re back._


	14. Davos II

Davos was having a very long day.

It had started the night before really, with Gendry flopping about on his cot like a fish on land that just wouldn’t die. Davos didn’t usually talk about his wife, it was easier to compartmentalize duty and family. Gendry, however, badly needed steadying. He’d done his best to calm the lad down, but he understood why he was so nervous.

_ Going through what they did together, thinking she was dead all this time, half-convinced it was his fault? That’s bad enough without her being the sister of the King in the North and him being the bastard son of the old king and oh yes let’s not forget that he loved her, that he may have been a little  _ in  _ love with her. I hope she’s put him out of his misery. One way or another. _

That morning as they broke camp and left, Davos saw the others giving Gendry advice. He was worried, frankly, that they would tell him to do something rash. Ser Jorah seemed a steady man, and the Queen a good judge of character, so perhaps not him. And Dondarrion may be a zealot, but he wasn’t stupid. Davos also found it unlikely Clegane would say much at all.  

Tormund then. He was worried what Tormund would tell him to do. Like, perhaps, challenge her to single combat right there in front of her brother. Or carry her off, again, right there in front of her brother. Wildling culture was largely a mystery to most ‘southerners’, save perhaps the king, and Davos wouldn’t put much past Tormund.

He’d talked to Gendry a bit as they’d made their way North, found out about his knowledge of women. Or rather, lack thereof. There was a girl in Flea Bottom for a little while, but Gendry said he knew he needed to be ready to leave and he couldn’t lead her on. Davos had had to stop himself from smiling at that.  _ He doesn’t even know that it’s her be’s been waiting for. Poor sod. _

As they rode, at one point Davos saw Ser Jorah pull Gendry aside. He started to look over his shoulder, attempting see, when Tyrion gave him a small smile and said:

“Don’t worry Ser Davos, what Jorah’s got to say the boy needs to hear.” His eyes hardened as he said this, as if he was remembering something painful.

“That’s what everyone thinks. And I’m surprised you haven’t given him some worldly wisdom yet, how you talk about women,” Davos replied gruffly.

“Women, yes. Love, no. When it comes to love, my advice involves running in the other direction and drinking. Not something I’m going to say to a useful young smith,” he said, with bitterness edging into his voice.

Davos noted to ask more about that next time Tyrion was well and truly drunk.  _ So, tonight then. _ He looked over his shoulder again “I’m still concerned what exactly he’s telling the lad,” Davos said worriedly. 

“What to do when she doesn’t love you back,” Tyrion said, sighing. He had a glint in his eye that was all the confirmation Davos needed for his suspicions regarding Jorah and the Queen

_ Everyone falls in love with this woman apparently.  _ His king was no exception here, and while Tyrion advised it end immediately,  _ seems to be a pattern _ , Davos himself knew that was not a battle he would win.

When they got closer to Winterfell, it was decided that Tyrion and Jorah shouldn’t come in with the rest of them for fear of causing an incident. Him merely being a Lannister was enough to put him in significant danger in the North, never mind his marriage to  Lady Sansa. As for Jorah, there were many lords that heartily agreed with Lord Stark’s death sentence all those years ago.

Just before they rode in, Davos made eye contact and tried to give an encouraging nod. Gendry nodded back, and his face was still and sad. It felt like he must’ve been preparing himself for the worst already.

When Gendry stepped from behind Clegane, Davos was ready for several possibilities. A joyous reunion filled with happy smiles. Or maybe cold recognition, steely eyes and cruel words. Every story he’d been told about this young woman revolved around her strength, her fierceness, her resolve not to show weakness.

So Davos hadn’t expected their meeting to happen quite like it did. Her face… broke. Like a piece of glass that was already cracked being hit once more and shattering. The few sentences they exchanged had the entire courtyard in silence, and he could feel everyone realizing that there was much more to this than they’d thought.

When she ran, the King began to run after her. Davos went to the lads side then, and put a hand on his shoulder. Gendry couldn’t look up, wasn’t moving, was hardly breathing. 

The Queen spoke, and Davos was reminded of the other thing he was scared of today.  _ Oh right, imminent diplomatic disaster.  _

When Gendry said the words ‘if you knew who I was’ Davos could’ve slapped him upside the head right then.  _ Just trying to keep the potentially fatal information to ourselves, but no, that would require thinking things all the way through now wouldn’t it.  _

As Jon began to give orders, Davos thought the saw a glint in the King’s eye. Davos stood with Sansa, waiting for Tyrion, and looked towards the door the King had lead Gendry through. He wondered what the two were talking about and where they were going.

Lady Sansa saw him look over his shoulder, and she had one of her dark, wry smiles on. 

“Don’t worry Ser Davos. I expect my brother is taking Gendry to the godswood. It’s where Arya will be.”

“And how d’ye know that, my lady?” he asked politely.

“Jon and Arya may think the godswood their secret hideaway, but it was a place of refuge for all of us growing up,” she explained.

Just then, Tyrion and Jorah approached. Tyrion nodded to the Queen, and then turned to Sansa.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head. “I’m glad to see you alive.” Davos noted that this was one of the few times where he did not doubt Tyrion’s sincerity in the least. The man seemed genuinely relieved. “I must say I was worried when I heard you and Littlefinger disappeared at the same time.”

As Sansa spoke, she gestured for the party to follow her and began to walk inside. “It’s good to see you’re alive as well, my Lord. It would’ve been terrible for you to be executed for killing Joffrey.”

“Because I happen to be innocent of the particular kinslaying?” he asked, humor masking discomfort.

“Because he deserved to die screaming,” Sansa replied darkly, with ice in her voice. Davos saw the Queen study Sansa at these words. Was that respect in her eyes?

Tyrion had a surprised and somehow proud look on his face. He paused for a moment before changing the subject. “My lady, I wanted to ask if you knew what befell Lord Baelish? There doesn’t seem to be an agreement as to where he is, and I've found that that's when he is most dangerous.”

Sansa stood a bit taller as she spoke. “I know exactly where he is, My Lord. He is no longer a danger to anyone. He was tried and executed right here in Winterfell not long ago. His body was burned in the wolfswood outside the castle.”

The Queen looked surprised, but more intrigued at this. Her hand however, had been stunned into silence by Sansa's revelation.  _ Well that takes talent.  _

Daenerys looked curious at this, as if she was presented with a puzzle. “May I ask what crimes he was executed for?”

“Starting the War of the Five Kings,” Sansa replied, holding the Queen’s gaze in a challenging manner.

There was silence for a moment, as the turned what seemed to be the final corner and a guard opened a door for them. The five of them filed into a well-furnished solar and were invited to sit.

Davos and Tyrion looked at each other at this moment, equally nervous, and unspoken understanding between them. They both knew that the fate of the realm might very well rely on the North accepting Daenerys, and Sansa was the key to that. Sansa was clever, and she knew her brother much better than she had when they were children. She knew there was something between him and the Dragon Queen.

“I hope you can forgive the welcome, Your Grace,” Sanasa said coolly. “We are in the middle of preparing the castle for a siege, there hasn’t been much time for pomp and circumstance. And Arya… I can confidently say none of us were expecting that.”

“I believe you are right. And I would not expect pomp and circumstance from the North at this time, especially knowing the man you chose as King,” Daenerys said, the smallest bit of dry humor making its way into her voice. 

“And you would say you  _ know _ my brother then?” Sansa said, cocking her head, a clear challenge. Davos looked to Tyrion seriously.

Tyrion was ready to jump, as if a flame was nearing wildfire. But his Queen surprised him. Instead of a harsh reply, her eyes softened, and a quiet seriousness overcame her.

“I’d dare say that I do,” Daenerys said, and as she looked at the Lady Sansa, Davos thought he could see a truce form between them.  _ So we’re putting this particular conversation on hold then. _

The Queen breathed deeply, a regal mask of cool calculation sliding onto her weary features. “I do not, however, know anything about the Lords of the North. Tell me how preparations are progressing.”

Davos noted the order, as well as Sansa’s pause before she pulled a map towards her.

They spent the next few minutes explaining the basic situation. The Queen knew her houses and geography, but nothing of the men themselves. Sansa showed troop movements and grain shipments and gave very brief accounts of the Lords currently staying in Witerfell. They had just begun to attempt to explain the wildlings when Jon came into the room, a tired yet hopeful look on his face.

Sansa was alarmed at his reappearance. "Jon. You didn't leave him there alone with her did you?"

Jon pulled off his great cloak and sat down. "I think we can dispense with a proper chaperone, don't you? Propriety has never exactly applied to Arya, and I would never have brought him if I didn't trust him."

"I'm not worried about propriety, and I'm not worried he'd hurt her, I'm worried  _she'll_ hurt  _him."_

Davos remembered the sword and dagger, the way her eyes were looking at everything and nothing in particular. How she stood behind her siblings like a guard. She was definitely a warrior.

"Truly, my lady?" he asked, disbelief and worry battling in his voice.

The flash of intensity left, and Sansa deflated a bit. Davos saw resolve settle in her eyes. 

"If she wants to kill him, we won't be able to stop her anyway," she said, sighing. Davos looked around the room, to Tyrion's confusion and the Queen's one arched eyebrow. Then he saw Jon, all the blood having run from his face.

Sansa looked into her brother's eyes and said "There are a few things I need to tell you."


	15. Sansa

“There are a few things I need to tell you,’ she said. She saw Jon’s face, already pale, fall like he was dropping a shield. She had watched the boys train enough to know that Jon had never favored fighting with a shield, found it too cumbersome. “It feels like hiding,” he’d say.

_It’s not in him to hide from things._

She knew the way she told this story would drastically change what her brother's reaction would be. The Jon that Sansa had known as a child rarely reacted on impulse, and when he did it was almost always in the training yard. He’d act without thinking, without knowing why he did what he did. This served him well for the most part, he’d act when Robb was still thinking and win. But sometimes it meant that all Robb had to do was sit back, let Jon tire himself out, leave himself open.

This new Jon that she had found was a man of action outside of fighting. And while most of the time that was an improvement, necessary to be a leader, occasionally Sansa found it to be a liability. _Jon’s always thought with his heart over his head. He hasn’t learned the same lessons I have. He does what he thinks is right, damn the rest of it.._

She had done what she thought was necessary. She knew that she just had to show him that, this time, those were the same thing.

“Perhaps you noticed that Lord Baelish was not there to greet you,” she said cautiously. She saw Davos’s face harden, preparing himself for his King’s reaction.

The Queen’s eyebrows went up just a fraction, and Sansa could see her realize that Littlefinger had been tried and executed entirely without Jons knowledge. _I keep surprising her._ Sansa wasn’t sure if that was a bad or a good thing.

“I did,” he said, suspicion creeping into his eyes. “Though I assumed it was due to what I… said, before I left.”

“And what did you ‘say’?” she replied, her eyebrow arching accusingly as she layered her voice with steel.

Jon shifted in his chair, a nervous glance shot to Daenerys before speaking. “He… told me he loved you. As much, and how, he loved your mother.” He looked at her apologetically.

 _Does he think I didn’t know?_ “And…?” she said, knowing the sarcasm in her voice would surprise him.

It did. He looked at her as if she didn’t understand before continuing. Like he couldn’t decide if he was ashamed or not. “I held him up to the wall by his throat and told him if he touched you I’d kill him myself,’ he said, quickly and harshly. The look on his face was wolfish, dark and protective.

Sansa felt her face drop, and she chastised herself internally for not suspecting that he’d done something like that. _We will be having this fight forever._

“You idiot,” she said softly, closing her eyes in exasperation and exhaustion. When she opened them again, she could see the Queen’s slightly annoyed, yet unsurprised expression, which clashed wonderfully with Davos’s eye roll and Tyrion’s barely restrained mirth.

“Well let it never be said that you are not Ned Stark’s son,” Tyrion said, dark humor giving way to pride and respect as he looked to her. “And let it never be said that you, my lady, did not learn from his mistakes.” _I wasn’t looking for his respect, but I am glad I have it all the same._

Jon looked between the two of them, clearly confused. “What are you talking about?” he said, becoming defensive.

“You reacted on impulse and with honor,” Daenerys said, quietly. He turned to her. “The same way you did beyond the Wall. The same way you did in the Dragon Pit.” Her eyes were loving, but her mouth was a harsh line. He looked taken aback, baffled.

“You did what you always do. You leapt without looking. You nearly got Arya killed and you didn’t even know it,” Sansa added, her voice leaving tired behind in favor of anger.

This caught his attention. He was half out of his chair as he looked to her and growled “What did he do?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, slammed his palm on the table to get Jon’s attention and said “Sit down,” in voice that was authoritative and annoyed. Jon looked to Daenerys before he sat, and Sansa could see Davos’s mouth curl one side. _That’s a conversation for later._

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him right now,” he said, looking into her eyes, and Sansa had no doubt he would have done it. It was the same look he’d had when he fought Ramsay.

“Because he’s dead,” she said plainly, emotion leaving her voice. “I executed him just a few weeks ago for the murder of Lysa Arryn, conspiracy to murder Jon Arryn, and the attempted murder of of Brandon Stark.”

Jon’s eyes were dark and his jaw was set. Clearly he wanted to say something, but he just breathed deeply and let her continue. She felt rage begin to creep into her voice.  

“He started the War of the Five Kings by manipulating my mother and our father, making them think the Lannisters killed Lord Arryn and tried to kill Bran. He led our father to the trap where he was attacked and imprisoned by the Kingslayer.” She saw Tyrion’s eyes go to the table, pain taking over his face. Jon was perfectly still.

“When you were here, he believed that you weren’t entirely loyal to me, exactly as I wanted him to. You attacking him must’ve made him think otherwise. He tried to regain control over me by pitting Arya and I against each other. If Bran hadn’t told us what was happening, it would’ve worked,” she said, her anger unwilling to fade as she spoke.

“Refuse to acknowledge it all you want, Jon, but you are in the great game now. And if you don’t play, it’s not just yourself you’ll get killed this time,” she said, watching his face fall, his mouth open and close again. His eyes looked to Daenerys, to Davos, then back to her.

“I…” he swallowed, visibly collecting himself before continuing. “ _You_ executed him?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” she said, her voice softening as she said the words. “But I am not a man. I passed the sentence. Arya was the sword. You may have noticed she carries a Valyrian steel dagger? It’s the same one that was supposed to murder Bran. Thought it was fitting.”

Jon had one hand gripping the arm of the chair, the other loosely curled into a fist over his mouth. Even with the obstruction, Sansa could see that he was breathing deeply, staring into the middle distance, his face flitting from one emotion to the next. _He always did wear his heart on his sleeve._ He looked over to Daenerys, and though to Sansa’s eyes the Queen gave away nothing of her thoughts, it seemed to settle him, and he nodded as he put his hand down.

“I put Winterfell in your hands,” he said. He looked like he was mourning something, but she thought she saw pride in his eyes. “It is better than it was when I left it,” his hand reached across the table to hers, and grasped it gently. “I’m sorry that I put you in more danger. You were right. Father and Robb made stupid mistakes and it got them killed. It got me killed.” He looked around the table at each of the others.

“I don’t think I’ll be the best of students,” he said, with the barest trace of humor. “But I will learn this game. If you would all be willing to teach me.” He looked to Sansa, and then to Tyrion, at this last thought.

Sansa squeezed her brother’s hand and let go, then looked to her former husband. _I never would have thought to see him again. He’s changed. He’s sadder, but more sure._ Tyrion smiled crookedly, his eyes questioning her playfully. She let out an amused breath.

“First lesson: your sisters are not to be underestimated. Gods, man, you said she was _starting_ to let on,” he laughed a bit, and stood up. “The rest of this conversation is going to require wine,” he said, going to a side table and pouring himself a cup.

Jon turned to Sansa. “What do you know about where Arya’s been?” he asked, tired and desperate and sad.

Sansa shot a glance to Davos before answering. “She said she traveled around the Riverlands for a while, and then that she trained with the Faceless Men in Braavos.”

“The Faceless Men? You’re joking,” Davos said, incredulity mixed with fear.

“I assure you Ser Davos, she was telling the truth. She’s… quite convincing,” she replied, repressing a shudder.

Davos shook his head. “The Faceless Men… they don’t have homes or families. You don’t come back from being one of them,” he explained. _He looks scared. Not worried, not concerned. Scared._

Tyrion retook his seat and said “Have you met one of them Ser Davos?”

“No, I haven’t had that pleasure. But I’ve known men from Braavos. The Faceless Men have no names, they call themselves ‘no one’. If Lady Arya was truly with them, it must be a hell of a story. And I believe you when you say that we couldn’t stop her from hurting Gendry if we wanted too.” Sansa noticed that Ser Davos slumped at this, the worry seeming to visibly weigh him down.

At that moment, the door opened, to reveal a guard escorting Bran, who was being wheeled by Samwell Tarly. Jon stood immediately and crossed the room to his little brother,  bending to hug him awkwardly. Bran made no move to hug Jon or even acknowledge his presence.

Jon pulled back as Sam closed the door. Sansa saw her older brother’s eyes squint in sadness and confusion.

“Bran?” he said, hesitantly, trying to catch his brothers eye.

Bran seemed to wake, and Sansa knew it meant he’d been having a vision.

“Hello,” he said, in his usual monotone. “We have something we need to tell you.”

Jon looked to her, loss and pain evident in his eyes. She’d written that Bran was different, but speaking to him was jarring if you didn’t know what to expect. _It’s like he’s a puppet, waking to tell a story and going limp once more._

Sansa interjected here, standing herself and crossing to Bran. “Your Grace, this is my brother Brandon, and Samwell Tarly. Bran, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and her hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister.” As the Queen stood, she could see her and her Hand exchange a small, worried glance. Bran merely nodded.

“Hello, to both of you,” Daenerys said regally.

Jon turned to Sam, smiling softly, said “I thought I sent you to Oldtown? You’ve come back without a Maester’s chain.”

“Well, without me you managed to get yourself killed and then declared King in the North, so I’d wager it’s best I’m back now.” The large man’s eyes flitted around the room nervously. “I found something, Jon,” he said, deadly serious nervousness in his voice. Sansa saw her brothers back straighten ever so slightly.

“Why don’t we all sit? There are things we all need to discuss anyway, you can begin with what you need to tell me,” Jon said.

Sam looked nervously to Daenerys before stuttering out, “P-Pardon me, your Grace, but- Jon perhaps we could go somewhere else, it’s not-”

“They can stay Samwell. It concerns her to,” Bran cut him off, authority somehow ringing in his emotionless voice. Jon looked to her and then Davos, confused, just as Daenerys looked to Tyrion. Finally, Daenerys and Jon looked to each other, and Sansa could see them have a conversation with their eyes, a question and a decision.

They all retook their seats, as Sam clumsily made room for Bran’s wheeled chair, finally sitting down himself.

There was a moment of awkward silence, before Samwell leaned forward to say “Well-” before Bran cut him off again.

“Your name is not Jon Snow,” he said.

Daenerys and Jon looked to Bran, then to each other. Davos and Tyrion both looked to her. She attempted to keep her face blank of surprise, but she knew she failed, as Tyrion’s face went from curiosity to concern, as he sat up from his casual slump.

Jon looked to Sam, his face going hard and angry, his voice commanding. “Sam, what’s going on?”

“W-well, I was transcribing the diary of the old High Septon, and I found-”

“He found out the truth about your parents. You are not the son Eddard Stark.” Bran said. _What? What does that mean?_

Daenerys was staring at Jon. Jon himself was glaring at Bran, his jaw was clenched so tight, Sansa knew it must be hurting him.

“Bran, look at him. He looks more like father and Uncle Benjen than we do,” she said, cautiously. She knew that what he saw was true, but occasionally what he told them was based on dreams that were shrouded in metaphor.

“He has Stark blood! Just not… that Stark,” Sam said, clearly trying to calm his old friend down. It wasn’t working, Jon was held so tightly he looked like to break himself in half.

Sansa was surprised to see the Queen speak up. “Then which Stark?” she asked, her voice an angry command as she turned her eyes accusingly to Bran.

Jons face fell, all the tension bleeding out of him as he nearly whispered “Lyanna.” It wasn’t a question, and he snuck a glance at Daenerys before looking at Bran. His face was as bereft as when they had found Rickon’s body after the battle.

Sansa saw Tyrion realize something, his entire face fill with the weight of a heavy truth. He put his elbows on the table. His voice was deadly serious, any trace of his usual mirth gone as he turned to Sam. “Are you _sure_?”

Sam blubbered out a “Yes, my lord,” and Sansa watched Tyrion look to his Queen.

“Your Grace-” he began, stopping, considering his words carefully before looking to Jon and then back to her. “There’s no way either of you could have known,” he said, putting one hand out as if he was reaching to touch a frightened animal. _She's not frightened though, she’s angry._

“So he’s the bastard of a different Stark, what’s…” She saw understanding dawn on Ser Davos’ face before looking at Jon with awe. “No. It can’t be,” he said, before looking to Tyrion.

The Queen practically snarled “Someone needs to speak plainly, right now.” Her jaw was clenched, her eyes on fire.

Tyrion looked to her with an apology in his eyes, but it was Jon who spoke first. He looked at her tenderly, sorrow and apology in his voice.

“Robert’s rebellion was started because my au- _mother_ , was kidnapped by your brother, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

 _This can’t be happening._ She looked to the Queen, who’s surprised face was incredibly vulnerable.

“She wasn’t kidnapped though!” Sam spluttered, looking at Jon with excitement. “She chose to be with him. The High Septon annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia Martell, and married Lyanna and Rhaegar himself.” He smiled, cautiously, before continuing. “You’re true born. You’re the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys stood up suddenly, having trouble catching her breath.

“What’s his name?” Sansa asked, turning to Bran. All the others looked to her as she continued.”You said his name is not Jon Snow. Then what is it?”

Bran looked her in the eye as he said, “Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon’s voice was exhausted, nearly as emotionless as Bran’s when he said. “Everyone out. I need to speak to the Queen.”


	16. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys discuss their new found kinship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey note the updated tags, Jon/Daenerys is no longer background. It's super relevant in this chapter, so don't @ me lol.
> 
> *Content warning, Daenerys mentions her past sexual assault. Nothing graphic.

As the rest of them left the room, Jon knew that Davos, Sansa, and Sam were all trying to catch his eye. He did not look up.

As he began to plan what he needed to say, he wondered how he knew. _There weren’t that many options. A Stark, in that part of the world at the right time?_ Ned’s brother Brandon and their father would’ve died too soon, Benjen was already back in Winterfell, and hardly more than a boy besides. If not Ned then....

_Lyanna._

He looked up at Daenerys as the door closed. _And Rhaegar Targaryen._

Her face was a conflicted mask of apprehension,  love and relief. She came around the table and touched his cheek gently. He leaned into it against his better judgement. _This is going to hurt anyway. May as well touch her one last time._ His face contorted in pain as he pulled her hand down, standing up out of his chair and stepping backwards out of her reach.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I just knew that my…” he stopped. _Do I get to call him my father? I’ve never known  another._ “That Lord Stark’s story always felt like it was missing something.

Her words were soft and kind, absolutely sure. “I know,” she said as she nodded. “You couldn’t keep a secret like this. Not from me. Not now.” _She needs stop looking at me like that. Like I’m the answer she’s been looking for..._

“I don’t want to be King of the Seven Kingdoms, I hardly wanted to be King of one.” His voice was apologetic, pleading. “I will not contest your claim. No one else ever has to know.”

She looked confused for a moment, before letting a small smile come across her face. She stepped towards him, and while his feet didn’t move he leaned away from her hand as she tried to touch his cheek again. It was the first time he’d ever avoided her. She frowned, and the look of sadness and rejection made her look like the very young woman she was.

She spoke slowly, confusion and pain and hope battling in her voice. “I will not force your birthright upon you. But I will ask you to consider one thing.” She paused, took a deep breath, and he could hear just the barest hint of desperation. “We could marry. Rule together.”

Jon knew she would say something like that. _Does she not see how hard this will be already, nevermind if she keeps saying such things_?

“Daenerys…” he said, eyes dropping to the ground, his voice a plea and a warning.

“I love you,” she said, her voice sure even as it threatened to break with emotion. “I know we haven’t said it, we haven’t said anything, but-,” she breathed deeply, barely avoiding a sob.

It was killing him to watch her, to not go to her. She never showed this much vulnerability to anyone, as far as he’d been able to tell. _No one but me._ She continued after catching her breath. “But I believe that you love me too. This doesn’t change that, if anything it makes it easier to be together.”

Her eyes were shining with hope, tears threatening to escape.

He shook his head, turned away from her, and walked a few steps aimlessly, lost. “Easier to... “ he said softly, the thought petering out. He turned back towards her. “You want me to learn this game? Fine. I’ll start now.”

His voice slowly went from stoic to angry. It was the only way he knew how to deal with the grief inside him, he needed to burn it before it consumed him.

“The northern lords only follow me because, to them, I am Ned Stark’s son. Bending the knee to you was already going to be difficult to explain. They will not forget that your father, my _grandfather,_ burnt my _other_ grandfather and my uncle alive. The memory of the Mad King runs deep throughout all Seven Kingdoms, not just the North. And for the last twenty odd years they’ve believed that your brother kidnapped and raped my- my mother.” He paused and caught his breath, flexing his burned hand and attempting to calm himself.

“I guarantee you there are already rumors that you’ve ensorcelled me somehow, with some foreign magics. He’s a young man, they’ll say, and she’s quite beautiful, it wouldn’t even need to be magic. They’ll be rumors about me going over to the enemy for a woman before, that that was the real reason I let the Free Folk past the Wall. And all of that before any of them have even seen the way- the way you look at me.” His voice broke, and Daenerys’s face and body had turned to steel, only the barest hint of anger and sadness on her face. He shrugged helplessly, blinking away a few tears.

“And that’s without telling them my true parentage. If we tell them, then at best, they believe us, and wait until after we defeat the Night King to kill us all. They’d kill Drogon and Rhaegal as well, because they wouldn’t be able to control them without you. At worst, they don’t believe me, refuse to follow me, or you for that matter, and squabble among themselves until every last one of us joins the army of the dead. Either way, your children would die, you would die.”

Daenerys began to speak, opening her mouth with what he was sure would’ve been a strong rebuke, but he cut her off.

“Forgive me, but I am not done,” he said, very forcefully. The closest he’d ever come to being that harsh was when they met. Though she looked rather taken aback, and her eyes had narrowed in anger, she did not continue. _I’m not sure anyone's commanded her since Viserys was alive._

“But say we get past all of that. Assume that we are able to defeat the Night King at all, and then I reveal myself. It makes sense, the northern lords cannot say they will never follow a Targaryen when they already have been. Sam goes back to Oldtown to find the diary, assuming it hasn’t been destroyed, and between that and the word of a half-mad cripple who everyone thought was dead- we tell the world who I am. And so we marry.” He knew he could not keep the longing out of his voice entirely, but he tried nonetheless. He saw Daenerys’s mask begin to melt around the edges.

His voice was quieter now, a profound and matter-of-fact sadness dripping from his words. “You know what they’ll say about me? That I’m a bastard who doesn’t know his place. That I'm an oathbreaker for leaving the Night’s Watch. They’ll begin to say that _I’ve_ tricked _you_ somehow, that you have the weak heart of a woman and are not fit to lead. I will discredit your claim if I try to share it, and I will not do that to you.” He pointed one finger down fiercely at this, wolfish protectiveness taking over his voice.

“And if that doesn’t happen, if we are believed, we still need to fight Cersei. Dorne was on your side before, but they won’t be after they find out about me. Your brother dishonored their Princess when he annulled his marriage, they will not stand his offspring by another woman being their King.” _Breathe. Don’t look at her tremble, you cannot go to her, you know you cannot._

“So we have the North, which has just exhausted itself fighting the Night King. We’d have the Eyrie and a _chance_ at the Riverlands through Sansa. Cersei has the Stormlands, the only rival claim being a bastard blacksmith boy no one’s ever heard of. She also has the Lannister armies,  and now the wealth and _food_ of Highgarden. The Dornish and the Iron Men will stay out of it, let the rest of us tear each other to pieces. And the small folk will not see you as their savior once they see that your army includes Dothraki, Unsullied, and Wildlings. “

His voice rose dangerously, and he could see Daenerys’ anger rising as well but he couldn’t stop himself. “And let us not forget that we can hardly feed ourselves because it’s still the middle of FUCKING WINTER!”

He sagged, breathing harshly, the anger almost burning itself out.

Daenerys looked away, jaw tensing and untensing, her hands grasping each other tightly. She breathed in deeply through her nose and looked to him before saying; “I told you I have faith in myself. I have faith in you now too. I believe that we can do this. If you don’t want me that’s one thing, but…” she trailed off, stepping back just a bit.

It was as if she couldn’t hold herself up anymore, as if Daenerys the woman was stepping out of Daenerys the Queen. He knew it wasn’t something she was comfortable doing. Ever. If his heart wasn’t broken already, proof that she trusted him so deeply would’ve done it.

He bowed his head, eyes closing just a bit as he spoke. _How could she ever think that._ She had to know he loved her, that that wasn’t the reason this had to end.  “Of course I want you… you have to know that…”

All of a sudden she had stepped within his space again, their chests barely brushing together. Both her hands were holding his face, and he couldn’t breathe. He could watch her eyes dilate and darken in desire, could feel her breathing get faster. He looked away and down as she spoke.

“Then I don’t care what the odds are. I _will_ win the Seven Kingdoms with or without you, but I _want_ to do it with you. You are more than worth _any_ opposition we may face. ” Her voice was fierce and scathing, the Queen was back, never really having left.  _They are not separate. They never have been._

He looked up into her eyes, his hands just barely holding her waist, and there was a moment where they merely breathed. It was like their first night together, that moment where it felt as if everything had been building to this person, right here in his arms. He almost began to lean in, he could see the moment where she decided to kiss him.

_You cannot._

He stepped back across the room,  forcefully but not carelessly, almost reaching the wall. He held his hands up in surrender as he bit down on his tongue, and took several deep breaths.

She quickly had a face of pure fury, but he saw the grief and heartbreak for just a moment. Through clenched teeth she asked; “Tell me why then.”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” he bellowed. What was left of his anger burned itself out in a flash. It was immediately replaced by pain and heartbreak, and he could feel the tears come, unable to stop them. He did not know how long they stood there, as he reigned in his breathing.

He continued in a small voice, trying not to sound like he was stating the obvious as he stated the obvious. “You’re my aunt. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes flashed, and her fury did not dim. “I spent most of my childhood expecting to have to marry my brother, who beat and terrified me. He eventually sold me to my husband, who raped me time and again, so, no it doesn’t mean anything to me. “ She shook her head, and looked at him as if what she was saying was self- explanatory.

 _She never said. Not after that first day._ She did not speak of her brother or her husband very often. Even when she told him of her life and her childhood, she avoided talking about them directly. He only had a vague impression of what they had been like. _I never told her much about Ygritte. Some wounds take time to undress._

Her face softened, just a fraction, as her voice became tired. “I do not care if the man I marry is my nephew. Because I love him. And I want him by my side until the end of my days, as short as that may be.”

He knew he must look exactly as desperate and broken as he felt. “I cannot watch you die,” he forced out, shaking his head and pulling in a ragged breath. “I cannot do that again. Not with you. Please do not ask it of me.”

Her face became calm and knowing, and longing over took her eyes.

“Jon,” she said. She began to walk towards him, very slowly. “Do you love me?”

His stared at her heavily as he swallowed hard. _Of course I do._

Suddenly he was moving, racing the few steps between them, catching her. One hand at her waist, the other in her hair, pulling her to him. His kiss was nearly bruising, slow, deliberate. She was kissing him back just as forcefully, her hands balled on his chest. He did not let himself deepen it for fear he would never come back up for air.

_Leave, now. Or stay forever and doom everything she can be._

He pulled his mouth back, keeping his eyes closed as he rested their foreheads together. He did not open his eyes as he spoke, his voice low and sorrowful. “I love you more than anything in this world. I will love you for the rest of my life.”

She took a ragged breath, and he could feel her relief, somehow. He pulled his head away from her.

“Which is why we have to stop this now, before I no longer have the strength.” His hands came to the sides of her head. Her eyes met his, and he brushed away a few of her tears with his thumbs before leaning up to kiss her forehead.

She said nothing as he stepped away, and he tried not to wince at the broken sob he heard as he closed the door.

He pushed past the guards blindly, leaving his cloak and unable to give a damn. He walked and walked, not paying attention to where his feet were carrying him, just needing to get away. As he opened the door to the godswood he had a fleeting, mad worry that he’d get to the Weirwood  tree only to find Gendry’s corpse.

Instead, he found Ghost, waiting patiently by the pool, standing silently to greet him. The direwolf looked at him curiously, walking to him slowly before resting his neck on Jon’s shoulder.  Ghost tucked his chin, pressing their chests together.

 _Where the fuck have you been,_ he thought, as he brought his hands up to hold on to Ghost’s fur and tried not to cry.


	17. Gendry V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya continue their conversation, getting to Gendry's secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: Gendry explains his assault

“Arya, I cannot wear this,” he said. Gendry knew that most of the time, Arya’s high birth didn’t affect her judgement or her worldview. But they had tripped into one of the few times that that was not true; though clothing was not the subject Gendry would’ve guessed it happening with. _The irony of being highborn, you don’t know how good you’ve got it._

Arya had brought him to a washerwoman, Audra, looking for clothes. The woman had nearly fallen off her stool when they walked in. She looked like she’d seen a ghost, or really, a pair of ghosts, looking pointedly at their clasped hands and then their faces.

Apparently the woman had been a maid for Arya’s Aunt Lyanna, before the rebellion. _She was engaged to my… to the King. Before she was kidnapped. Audra must’ve seen the two of them when we walked in the door._

“I’m told I bear a resemblance to King Robert when he was young. You must’ve thought you were seeing him again,” he said. Arya looked at him queerly out of the corner of her eye before shifting her focus. _She’ll be asking about that later, no doubt._ The woman paused, seeming unsure of what to say, nervous. Arya had looked at her confusedly before saying;

“Audra, speak your mind. They are both long dead, you cannot hurt them. And you will never be punished for telling me the truth, no matter what it is,” her words were gentle, but you could hear the underlying strength. _Not a lady, my arse. She could lead, and well, if she wanted too._ The woman breathed out heavily before she spoke.

“Aye, m’lady. It’s just-” she shot a glance to Gendry, “your Aunt never seemed too keen on Lord Robert, from where I was standing. I was one of the few servants that went with them to the tourney at Harrenhal and-” The woman looked down and stopped though she was clearly halfway through a thought.

Gendry watched Arya’s face fall. He knew he didn’t know his history, but Arya knew hers. Clearly this was important. _What tourney at Harrenhal?_

Arya’s voice was softer now, and she was genuinely asking, not commanding. “Please continue. My father never… he never told us very much of his childhood or his family. Especially Lyanna. All I know I know from Maester Luwin and my mother, and they weren’t there.”

The woman looked into Arya’s eyes and nodded seriously. “Your Aunt, she was… not like other ladies. Much like you when you were younger. During the tourney, she didn’t spare Robert Baratheon a second glance, despite his obvious affection. Whenever their betrothal was brought up she never said anything in its favor. The Prince named her the Queen of Love and Beauty when he won, and the way she smiled, I’ll never forget it… Seeing them together, I never did believe he kidnapped her.” She paused, and Gendry could see the shades of old wounds play out on her face. “I brought it up to your father once, when he came back from the war. He told me to never say such things again.”

Gendry watched Arya’s face go from stunned to understanding. It was as if she was solving a riddle, filing away the clue in the right spot.

“Thank you for telling me this. I would ask that you continue not to speak of it,” Arya said, glancing to him in worry. _She’ll explain later._

Arya’s face brightened a bit as she changed the subject. “We actually came to you because I need help finding Gendry clothes that don’t make him look like a wildling. I know that there are old trunks we could perhaps look through, I just don’t know where.”

The woman nodded. “Of course m’lady. If you’ll follow me.”

She led them to a small storage room in the bowels of the castle. Gendry didn’t think he’d be able to find his way back without help. It had clearly not been touched in a few years, though at the back of the room the dust was so thick Gendry thought it might’ve been more like a few decades.

The woman went nearly to the back, brushing aside cobwebs with a torch. When she found the large trunk she was looking for, she handed Arya the torch and began to go through its contents. Gendry couldn’t help but notice the intricate carvings on its sides.

“When your father came back from the rebellion, he commanded that his father’s, sister’s, and brother’s belongings be locked away. Usually if something is no longer wanted, we find a way to reuse it, but he commanded that it all be left untouched. Then, when we heard news of… the rest of you, we put your things here too. Yours, m’lady, are still here, though I’d doubt any of it would fit you. And it’s mostly dresses besides.”

She looked to him with a critical eye. “You’re broader than Lord Robb, in the shoulder and chest. Lord Brandon and Lord Eddard would be much too tall, but perhaps Lord Rickard’s things, m’lady’s grandfather.” At this she handed him a fine leather jerkin, shirt, breeches, gloves, stockings, even boots. Then she paused and looked critically at him. She looked to Arya with a hesitant face.

“I’m afraid there isn’t a cloak, as your Lord father took it with him south. But I’m sure the seamstresses have something on hand,” she said. _Well why didn’t we just go there first, instead of pretending I’m some kind of lordling. She can’t really expect me to wear this._

Apparently she could though. She’d found out from a steward where he was supposed to be sleeping and took him there. It was a rather small room, but clean. There was a bed, the mattress straw but well-stuffed, with plenty of furs and blankets. There was even a chest, where his few belongings had already been stowed.

 _This must seem modest to her, but this is the best room I’ve ever had, except for…_ He shook his head just a mite, trying to get rid of the thought. He hated how easy it was for him to remember that night, how it came to his mind unbidden.

“I’m serious, Arya. I cannot wear these.” He pointed to them where they lay on the bed. The clothes were plainly cut and entirely without embellishment, but made of the finest materials and obviously sewn by a master seamstress. It wasn’t a southerners idea of a Lord’s clothing, to be sure, but to a Northern eye...

“Why not? It’s my family’s things, and you’re my family, so I say you can. The only people who can say different are Jon, Sansa, and Bran. The most Bran will do is say something cryptic, Sansa will say it’s better for me to be seen with you if you don’t look like an idiot southerner, and Jon won’t care. What’s the problem?” she looked at him impetuously. He had to school his face and breathing. _She called me her family. She..._

“It- it’s not proper. These were the clothes of the Lord of Winterfell, I can’t be putting on airs, I’m not, I mean I’m just-” he stopped, as he looked at her. Her face couldn’t decide if she was going to laugh at him or argue with him, and it was quite an interesting battle to watch. He smiled, unable to help himself. It wasn’t so much that he’d forgotten all these little things about her, so much as he hadn’t let himself think about it. It was wonderful to see again.

He could hear Jon’s voice in his head “We have no time for propriety,” he’d said.

He took a deep breath. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?” he said, grinning exasperatedly.

She smiled then, as if she was surprised. “No, you’re not. Now change, I still have something tell you,” she was impatient, clearly, but made no move to leave.

“Does m’lady intend to watch me undress, or would you like to leave for a moment?” he asked playfully, entirely unsure as to the boundary here. When he’d said she was beautiful he was sure she was going to run, but then when he’d held her in the corridor, it almost felt like he was supposed to kiss her. And then he had kissed her forehead, a gesture that seemed far more familiar than just a kiss. He hadn’t even thought about it, it just felt natural.

He got the sense that whatever _this_ was, it was entirely new territory for her. Not that it wasn’t for him as well, but to a slightly lesser extent. _I will need to tell her about that. Also I’ve never been brainwashed by a cult of assassins to reject feelings of any kind, most of all… love._

He knew he loved her. He’d heard a song once that said when you didn’t have a word big enough for it, that’s how you knew it was love. And though he knew that being by her side would be enough, the idea that she might… that they might…

He shook his head slightly again, realizing there’d been far too long a silence. She was standing frozen, her eyes huge and unfocused, her mouth slightly parted. She looked so unsure, it took him a minute to identify the expression. He’d hardly ever seen it on her face.

“Arya? I was joking. I’m sorry, are you alright?” worry entered his voice, and he stepped towards her, hands out.

“I’m alright,” she said, snapping back to herself. “I just- I’m realizing some things.” She looked at him like he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

“You want me, right? As a man wants a woman?” she asked, like a child asking about the order of the seasons. Like she understood it, but she’d never seen it and so needed to check.

He could feel the blood rush to his face, his mouth parting a little, his eyes widening. _That was not what I was expecting at all._ Her face was open, curious. She wasn’t accusing him of anything, she was really asking.

_I don’t know what to do other than tell the truth. Even if that means that this is all I get. She may not send me away now, but if she finds out I lied she definitely will later._

He looked in her eyes, knowing he had to say it. His face was perfectly serious, solemn and still.

“Yes,” he said, with hardly any breath behind it, hardly loud enough for her to hear. “But I will never speak of it again if you do not want me to.” He was breathing too slowly, it was like he couldn’t pull in enough air. He could feel his heart start to race. His voice was pleading, sad. “Please let me stay.”

Her face had an odd intensity to it, she was deciding something again. He could tell when the decision was made, as she broke into a small, innocent smile. She walked towards him, and he stayed very still, until she was hardly a few inches from him, her face tilted up. He could see her eyes flick to his lips for a moment, and he caught himself looking at hers.

“May I kiss you?” she asked, a hint of nervousness mixed into the joy in her voice. For a moment none of the burdens she’d been carrying were there. This simple question, and all of its complications, was all that was real.

He didn’t entirely trust himself to speak, so he just nodded. Her small smile became a brilliant one as she put her one hand on his chest and one just barely touching his cheek.

His eyes closed, and her kiss was sweet, with only the slightest bit of pressure. He knew she must be on her tiptoes to reach him. He moved his lips just a bit, but didn’t open his mouth, wanting to participate but not wanting to rush anything. _Gods please let this keep happening._

When she pulled back, he opened his eyes, and saw her face as he never had before. She looked proud, but also bewildered, excited and also embarrassed. He felt a huge smile break across his face as he grabbed the hand that was on his chest.

“Have you told me everything then?” he asked, incredulous. This seemed to be what they had been building too, the thing she was waiting to do until she was sure.

Her eyes dropped, and the hand at his cheek dropped to his chest,  clenching nervously. Self- consciousness came across her face as she said “Well… no.” He could feel his eyebrows go up. “But I had to- it had to wait. I didn’t want to tell you because…” she paused, clearly nervous, refusing to maintain eye contact. “If you had left because of what I am now, because of what I’ve done, I could handle that. But if I told you… how I _felt…_ and then you left…”

She stopped, and bit her lip. He reached down to put his hands on her hips. “And how did you feel?” he asked, in a slow and deliberate voice.

She breathed in quickly, and her eyes closed a bit as he squeezed her hips for just a moment. She looked up to him. “We… before… I wanted you. I wanted this to happen someday.” She stopped, a small, embarrassed smile on her face. 

He had expected to be smug, but instead he was hit with a deep and relentless love for her. _Fuck. I have to tell her now don’t I._

“Could we sit for a moment? I don’t have as many things to tell you, but I still have things I need you to know. Otherwise _I’ll_  be worried _you’ll_  leave,” he said, with more fear in his voice than he thought there’d be.

She nodded worriedly, and they sat side by side on the bed. He internally smiled at how her feet barely brushed the floor, at how she sat as close to him as she could. He looked at his feet as he began.

“It’s about the Red Woman. She used me for blood magic, Arya. She tricked me. Put me in a lord’s rooms, and when she came to see me…” he stuttered off here.

He looked at Arya, and her face was murderous. He grabbed her hand before continuing. “She kissed me, kept kissing me, and I didn’t even have time to know what was going on before she’d pushed me back on the bed and took my clothes off. You have to understand, I’d never touched a woman before and I didn’t know what to do it was already happening and I… I didn’t feel like I had a choice.” He rushed through this last sentence, and began to realize that keeping this to himself had been hurting him.

He could see Arya’s eyes begin to break from the rage, be taken over by pain. She put her other hand on their clasped hands, squeezing, breathing hard through her nose. He looked down, ashamed.

“She tied me to the bed, and put leeches on me. Three of them. One of them on…” he shook his head, not wanting to continue that. “She took them off after a bit, and after that I was taken to the dungeons. Ser Davos told me later that she… used them, burned them, saying three names as she flung them into the fire.” He looked her in the eye. “The names were Balon Greyjoy, Joffrey Baratheon, and Robb Stark.”

Her face collapsed in confusion. “You don’t really think that....” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know what I believe, but I had to tell you,” he said quickly, his voice edging into desperate.

“She hurt you,” she said, and the quiet fury blended with a palpable pain, he could see tears beginning to collect in her eye.

“I’m alright now,” he said, surety and hope in his face. “We’re here, we’re safe, and we’re together. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.” He smiled at her, soft and sweet.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“… Yes,” he said nervously. He’d lived so openly with his parentage these past few weeks, he’d almost forgotten she didn’t know.

She nodded seriously. “What then?”

“Well… turns out, the reason the Red Woman wanted me is because I am Robert Baratheon’s bastard son. Apparently I look like him quite a bit. It’s why the goldcloaks were after me, too.” He looked to her as he finished, to see her eyes were huge, her nose flared. _She’s… scared. Of me?_

“Who knows?” she commanded forcefully.  _For me. Scared_ for  _me._

“Your brother, Ser Davos, the Queen, everyone I traveled here with.” She stood abruptly, her hand gong to her dagger as she turned to the door. He jumped up, grabbing her arm before she could leave. “It’s alright though, I’m safe, they’re not going to hurt me, Arya, they’re not.”

She had stopped, but he did not let go of her arm. “Look at me, Arya, please.”

She turned to him, breathing hard. He reached a hand up to her cheek. “It’s alright, Arya. I’m safe. We’re safe.”

She launched herself at him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her face was pressed to his neck, and he could feel her tremble just a bit as she said; “No one else is allowed to die. You are not allowed to die.”

He stood there for a moment, holding her, stroking her hair and her back.  She pulled her head back, her eyes impossibly dark. She kissed him then, rushing headlong in, desperate. This kiss was not sweet at all. It was slow and needy, a promise of more to come. He was just about to deepen it when there was a knock at the door.

“Gendry? Lad? She hasn’t killed you has she?”


	18. Tormund II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund pokes at Clegane's emotions, as well as his own.

When they’d given advice on wooing women that morning, Tormund approached it playfully. He was worried about scaring Gendry. Despite his capability in a fight, it was clear he was still a green boy when it came to women.

The way he’d talked about Lord Crow’s sister though, Tormund could tell that this was deeper than even the lad realized. Perhaps more than anyone, he understood that bonds made as children, fighting for one’s life, were powerful and lasting things. The Free Folk had a harder life than the southerners, and such childhood bonds were far more common. So when the girl ran, his heart broke for the boy. But, at least she didn’t gut him. _And with those weapons, I’d wager she knows how._

After their… welcome, in the courtyard, Tormund, Beric, and Sandor had been taken to their rooms before being told they were free to roam the castle. Tormund took the other two to the training yard, hoping to catch Brienne.

She was leading a training of mostly young women. It was beautiful to watch. The girls were dropping their weapons like babes who’d never held a spear, but Brienne was patient and kind as she corrected their stances and led them through a drill. She even smiled at one of them.

They watched as Brienne paired the women off to practice specific strikes. She came over to them, as Tormund had just so happened to pick a spot to stand that was near Brienne’s water skin.

A tired disgust covered her face after she took a long drink. “And what do you want?” she said.

He smiled hugely, but before he could speak, Beric did.

“We came to train,” he said genially. “Forgive me, my lady, but you would be a formidable opponent and I was hoping you would spar with me.”

She looked a the three of them suspiciously, before looking back at Beric. “Didn’t they tell you? I’m no lady,” she paused, thrusting her water skin into Tormund’s hands. He clasped it gently, like it was a precious and breakable thing, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Draw your steel, Ser.”

As he and Sandor watched them spar, it seemed as though the other man wasn’t paying attention. But then, he saw Beric nearly trip Brienne, and could hear Sandor breathe in quickly, muttering “don’t look down, for fucks sake, go to his right.”

Tormund saw his chance to ask a question he knew would normally get him nothing but a glare. “So you know both of Lord Crow’s sisters then?”

He could see the taller man pause in pain for a moment, before saying “Yes. I do.”

“How do you know Lady Sansa?” he asked, softening his voice.

Just then Brienne knocked Beric onto his arse, the point of her sword at his throat. For a man with one eye he was an incredibly competent fighter, but he did tend to overcompensate, guarding his blind side more than he needed too. He laughed as he got up, smiling. Brienne looked fairly bemused by this, and she gestured to the group of young women. Beric nodded and followed her, and began showing one of the women how to grip her spear so it wouldn’t be knocked out her hand.

Tormund looked back to Clegane, a questioning look on his face. Upon seeing this, the man shook his head and looked away.

“When I was one of the Kingsguard, I… I suppose she would say I was kind to her, but that only shows how much that little twat of a king hurt her. She was just a toy to them, a piece in a game,” he said, anger creeping into his voice as his hands clenched. He took a deep breath.

Sandor did something Tormund had never seen him do. He continued unprompted. “I’ve done many things that I should’ve been killed for. More things than I remember. I’m good at killing, I liked it, and because I did it in the name of the King I was rewarded. But then, I saw what was happening to her. She was just a child. Her father was killed in front of her, all his men gone, even her sister disappeared. She had no one. So I was as kind as I could be without Joffrey noticing. I should’ve done more.”

Tormund saw genuine pain and turmoil on the other mans face, and was taken aback. Sandor had never seemed to care about… anything.

 _“_ We all mourn those we couldn’t protect. The ghosts of what happened to them is worse than anything that can happen to us,” he said quietly, sadly, letting himself feel his grief for just a moment. “Just be grateful that yours survived.” _Not all of us get that much._

He patted the larger man on the back, leaving him to brood, before setting down Brienne’s water skin and walking into the yard.

A group of young girls had just arrived, not one past her twelfth name day.  They looked nothing like his daughters, there wasn’t a single redhead among them, but the group of small faces made him remember all the same. He walked up to them, forcing a smile back onto his face.

“Are you little ones here to fight?” he asked, bending his knees to rest on his heels, coming down to their eye level.

Most of them were startled, even scared, but the smallest of them was brave. She stepped in front of the others protectively, jutted her chin out in a challenge and said “We’re here to train with Arya. Who’re you?”

His smile was no longer forced. _This one’s got spirit. Hopefully the kneelers won’t be able to drum it out of her._

“I am Tormund Giantsbane, little wolfling. And who are you?” he asked gently.

“My name is Nettie.” She paused, looking unsure. “You’re a wildling. I heard the soldiers say you’re mad.”

He chuckled. “Ah, but you need to be a little mad to survive beyond the Wall.” He looked at the rest of them as he continued; “It seems Arya is not here today, would you all perhaps let me teach you?”

One of the ones behind Nettie spoke up. “You would teach girls?” she asked, surprised.

“Of course. I taught all my daughters to fight, why shouldn’t I teach you too?” he asked, as he stood. Nettie was still quite suspicious, and put an arm out to keep the others behind her.  _Smart girl. Don't trust the strange man._  He looked to her for permission, saying;“We’ll stay right here, where Brienne can see, so she can kill me if I do anything to displease you.”

The other girls laughed at this, though Nettie still looked skeptical, her eyes piercing for one so young. She looked around at her companions and came to a decision. “Alright,” she said. “Arya’s been teaching us how to get away if a man grabs us. Can you do that?” she asked, and though the challenge in her voice was less, it was still there.

_I’m beginning to like this Arya girl._

“Of course I can. Now, will the rest of you tell me your names?” he asked joyfully, trying to hide the pain in his eyes.

_I may have failed my little ones, but I will not fail again. Not again._


	19. Arya IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya meets Davos, and Tormund, then sees Clegane and Jon in the training yard.

“It’s alright, Arya. I’m safe. We’re safe,” Gendry said. 

He had a hand on her cheek and was looking at her like… like he loved her. Like she was enough that the rest of the world didn’t matter. All of the emotion she’d been waiting to acknowledge hit her at once.  _ This is real. He’s not leaving. I... I love him. _

She couldn’t handle that particular thought being alone in her head, she needed to prove to herself that this was actually happening again. Before she knew it she was in his arms, her legs around his torso this time. His arms came up around her almost immediately, holding her gently.

She tucked her face into his neck and spoke very quietly, trying not to let her voice waver.

“No one else is allowed to die. You are not allowed to die.” As she spoke, she realized it was the first time she’d actually said it to another person.

They stayed there, her bringing her breathing back under control as he slowly stroked her back, her hair. Finally, she pulled her head back slowly. As she looked into his eyes she had an urge to kiss him, quite unlike what she had felt just a few minutes before. Then, she was more curious than anything. But now, she…  _ wanted. _

She kissed him recklessly, one hand reaching up to hold the back of his head. She could feel him breathe in quickly in surprise, and he began to shift his hands, when there was a knock at the door.

“Gendry? Lad? She hasn’t killed you has she?” said the voice outside the door.

Arya pulled her head back from Gendry’s, to see him breathe away his annoyance slowly, and close his eyes in acceptance.  _ This is real. We have time.  _ She laughed, a small, light thing, floating out her mouth. She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and unclasped her legs from round his waist to drop from his arms. As she hit the floor, she grabbed one of his hands and gave him what she hoped would be a reassuring squeeze.

She walked to the door, and as she opened it, said “No, I have not killed him,” in a deadly serious voice. She turned her head to see Gendry raising one hand in a lame greeting, with a tired and fond look on his face.

Ser Davos only looked mildly surprised. “Well I appreciate that. After all the trouble I’ve gone to to keep him alive this long, I’d prefer he didn’t die just yet. My name is Ser Davos Seaworth, my lady.”

Her voice became serious, grateful, and her eyes were nothing but sincere when she said; “I know who you are Ser Davos. I’m told I have you to thank for saving Gendry from the Red Woman. As well as for having her bring back my brother Jon. Tell me Ser Davos, how would you react to such a thing in my place?”

She was not threatening him in any outward manner, but she knew that the stillness with which she held herself was unnerving. She wanted it to be. She allowed No One to stand for her, as she ruled her face.

The man took a breath, and got a curious yet respectful look in his eye. He held his hands behind his back and looked askance at Gendry before answering her. 

“Forgive me, but I  _ am _ in your place, my lady. Of all the people in this castle, I do believe that you and I are the only ones that care for  _ both _ of those stubborn young men. And, frankly, I don’t know how to feel about it, except for a gladness that they are still alive.” He looked at her with a matter of fact face, as if to say ‘that’s what I’ve got, take it or leave it’. 

She smiled then, and put No One back in their box. “Stop calling me ‘my lady’, Ser Davos, and I think we’ll get on quite well.” She turned to Gendry, pointed to the clothes on the bed, and said “Change,” in a playfully commanding voice. She pushed Davos out of the doorway and closed the door with them in the hall.

As they stood on either side if the door, backs to the wall, Davos smiled genially to her, clearly unsure as to how to proceed.

“I would’ve thought you’d be with Jon til supper,” she said, almost joking. But when she saw the genuine worry and discomfort on Davos’ face her tone shifted sharply. “What happened?”

Davos breathed out a huff, and looked to the floor before answering her. “I’m afraid your brother is the one who needs to tell you, my la- Arya.” She knew her face must’ve betrayed her fear, as he quickly stuck out his hand in a calming gesture and continued.”No no, he’s alright, its… He just received some news that was hard to hear. He needed to speak with Queen Daenerys alone for a moment.”

She covered her worry with a bemused smile, trusting that Davos would be easily fooled. He wasn’t though, and his head tilted as he noticed her still-growing worry.

“I promise you, he’s safe. You should know what it is, it’s just not my place to tell you,” he said apologetically. “So I thought I’d come check on him,” he said, a thumb pointing towards the door.

“Sansa was worried I would kill him, right? Did she tell you that if I wanted him dead, you wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it?” she challenged. The worry was still simmering, but she trusted Davos enough to let this be til later. 

“Aye, she did. But I didn’t think you wanted to kill him. Slap him, maybe, but not kill him,” he said, the last sentence an afterthought.

Just then there was a great thump from inside the room, followed by muffled cursing. Arya made a strained noise, containing her laughter as best she could. Davos merely rolled his eyes.

They stood there in a comfortable silence for a moment, and Arya was just about to ask him about the Dragon Queen when the door opened and Gendry stepped out.

He looked incredibly uncomfortable, holding his arms too far from his sides. At first she thought it must have been ill-fitting, but then realized he was merely worried he’d damage them.

“Gendry, they’re clothes, you are allowed to move in them,” she said dryly.

“These are the nicest things I’ve ever worn, pardon me if I’m a little uneasy. And they’re too long, what happened that you and your brother are so short, clearly your ancestors were tall,” he said, the jab trying to cover how obviously awkward he felt.

“You look good, and we can have them fitted later if you need,” she said. He did not look convinced, and so she continued. “I would rather them be used than sit in that trunk for another twenty years. It’s not like my grandfather will be coming home anytime soon.”

She saw Davos’s eyebrows go up, with a small half smile following it.

“I know that, I just-” he stuttered, and looked to the ground like that’s where the right words would be hiding. “It feels like someone’s going to come along and rip them off me, tell me to get back to the forge and count myself lucky they don’t take my hand for thieving.” He looked at her apologetically, defeatedly. “You feel real. But everything else-” he gestured to himself, “doesn’t.”

She honestly didn’t know what to say to that, clearly a clever quip wasn’t going to work. Davos interjected. “I’d like to say you get used to it lad, but you never really do. I’ve spent half my life waiting for it all to be pulled out from under me.” He put his hand on Gendry’s shoulder, and Arya could see Gendry visibly relax.  _ Interesting.  _ Davos’s eyes softened before he continued.

“There’s no shame in being from Flea Bottom. It’s a part of who you are, and you can’t change it. The clothes don’t mean anything you don’t let them mean. They’re not a trick or a trap. You belong here, Gendry. Because I say so, because Jon says so, but mostly, because she says so,” he finished, pointing at her and taking his hand off Gendry’s shoulder. 

Davos paused for a moment, then looked to her, half genuine worry and half mirth, “You  _ do  _ say so, right?”

The way Gendry looked at her made him look so young. He was terrified and hopeful and resigned to his fate all at once.  _ Does he still doubt me? Or is it everyone else?.  _ Arya had never much cared what other people thought. Well, that wasn’t true. She cared what the right people thought, but that had never been a long list. Everyone else knew where they could stick it.

A thought came to her, something she’d never considered before. She was a lord’s daughter. Very few people could tell her what to do or who to be, but that wasn’t true for Gendry.  _ Oh. He has to care what they think because they can hurt him.  How did I miss that?  _

She grabbed his hand, and looked at him solemnly. “Of course,” she said, and he let out a small breath in relief before smiling. “I’m not going to let anyone take you away from me. You’re here until I tell you to go, remember?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw recognition come to Davos’s face. It quickly shifted to a grandfatherly expression, happy and proud and just a little exasperated. He looked down, as if he wanted to give them privacy.

Gendry seemed to smile despite himself, and he tilted his head just a tic as he looked at her, as if he was seeing something for the first time and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.  She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

She looked away from him before she did something stupid like kiss him again and said to Davos; “If you are not occupied by Jon, you should come with us. I’m going to show him the training yard, I actually should be teaching right now.”

She began to walk, knowing that Gendry’s determined grip on her hand would ensure he’d follow on her left. Davos seemed confused, taking a moment before walking on her right. 

“Teaching?” he asked, genuine curiosity in the old man’s voice.

“I’ve been teaching people to fight, and I got Brienne to help. Winterfell still doesn’t have a proper master-at-arms. It started with just the women and children, but then the men of the castle came, and now even some of the southron soldiers come,” she said matter of factly.

Davos asked her questions as they walked, what she was teaching them, about her training, how the students were progressing. Their conversation was a testing of the waters of sorts. Davos was right, they were perhaps the only two people who shared Gendry and Jon. She wanted to see who this man was, and she could tell Gendry understood this,  staying out of the conversation aside from the occasional laugh.

Davos was a genial man, kind and even funny at times. He even reminded her of Jon, if Jon was thirty years older, had stopped brooding entirely, and had a much longer fuse on his temper. Arya quickly understood why Gendry was so obviously steadied by the older man.  _ He’s never really had a father, has he. Davos seems a good choice. _

When they reached the training yard, they saw the oddest fight Arya had ever seen. The red-headed wildling from earlier was being set upon by Nettie and the other girls. He was laughing, a great, booming thing, as Arya’s four youngest students attempted to bring him to the ground. 

Two were each holding a hand, and Arya noted that while Lyssa had him in a tight wristlock, Gert’s finger lock was slipping.  _ She’s pulling from her shoulders, not her hips.  _ Little Bess, the youngest of them, just barely six, was sitting on his foot, clinging to his leg for dear life and giggling in delight whenever he attempted to shake her off. And finally, there was Nettie, her legs dangling wildly, with an arm all the way round his neck.  _ She’s applying pressure in the wrong spot, he can breathe fine. How the fuck did she even get up there.  _

Davos was chuckling, a bright thing, like it was a relief he didn’t know he needed.

“Tormund…?” Gendry muttered, in delight and awe. 

Just then the man roared. “I give in! Have mercy on me!”

Lyssa and Gert let go, laughing, and Lyssa helped Bess to her feet as they stepped back. Nettie, though, got a determined scowl on her face and said “No! You said it was only over when someone couldn’t get up! You’re lying!”

The man, Tormund, got a small, proud grin on his face. “Alright then, little wolfling. Your fellows have left and I am free to fight you myself. You aren’t able to choke me, and all I need to do is fall on you to win. What do you do?”

Nettie looked scared, unsure.  _ That’s my cue.  _ “The knife, Nettie,” she said, dropping Gendry’s hand and stepping forward. The other girls turned, smiled, and ran to her, cutting her off from Gendry and Davos. Nettie nodded seriously, and shifted so that her legs were clutching his middle, then pulled a dagger no bigger than Arya’s palm out of the sleeve of the arm she was trying to choke him with. She held it to his artery, and in a fierce and triumphant voice said “Got you.” She leapt down, and immediately got out of his reach, just like Arya had taught her. 

He looked confused, as if he’d been tricked. Glancing from Nettie to Arya, rubbing the spot where the knife had been with one hand, his eyebrows scrunched together. “That’s cheating!” he said.

Arya smirked at him, as Bess stepped forward with a beatific smile on her face. “We’re little,” she said, repeating the words Arya had told them again and again. “We  _ get  _ to cheat!”

Tormund let out a bark of a laugh before walking over to them. Nettie raced ahead of him, standing just behind Arya and to the right. Arya noticed that she was standing closer than she usually did; Nettie was not generally one for non-combat-related human contact or closeness. 

“I am Tormund Giantsbane. You must be Lord Crow’s other sister.” He looked quickly between her and Gendry. “I must say I am glad you didn’t gut the boy. He’s not all that bright, but he’s grown on me.”

She looked to Gendry who was shaking his head good-naturedly. “Thank you, Tormund, really,” he said dryly. 

“Arya! Arya! Tormund taught us new things today,” Lyssa said. She leaned in as if she was going to be quiet, and what was clearly supposed to be a whisper was somehow louder than her speaking voice as she continued. “He’s a little bit mad but I like him.” Arya kept herself from  smiling at this.

Gert piped up now. “And we made sure Brienne was here the whole time, we weren’t alone because he’s a stranger, just like you said,” she said, nodding seriously.  _ Good, they are listening then. _

“You did well, I’m sure. But it’s getting late, your parents will be expecting you,” Arya said kindly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Lyssa and Gert each took one of Bess’s hands and smiled as they said goodbye, and as they walked away Bess turned around to grin at Tormund specifically.

Arya turned to Nettie then.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, letting just a little bit of worry flow into her voice.

Nettie looked embarrassed and upset, and wouldn’t meet Arya’s eyes. “You weren’t here. I was scared,” she said quietly, shoulders bunched and head down.

“And what do we say about being scared?” Arya asked her.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,” the girl answered automatically, still refusing to look up.

“Exactly. Next time if I can’t come I’ll send word, alright? I promise,” she said, the last two words surprising her as they came out of her mouth. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but not unkind. “Nettie, look at me,” she said, and though it wasn’t a command it also wasn’t a request. The girl looked up. Shame and fear and sadness swirled over her features.

Arya continued, her voice getting quieter. “Someday, hopefully a very long time from now; I’m not going to come back. It’s not going to be your fault. The God of Death will have his due.” She didn’t know how she knew what to say. She just knew the girl was scared. ”But you are going to be alright. You’re like me, remember? You will find a way to save yourself.”

Nettie did something she’d never done before, and instead of answering she merely rushed into hugging Arya. There was a quick, tight squeeze, and then she ran off without a word.  _ I didn’t even hug her back.  _

She turned to Gendry, and he had the oddest look on his face. Surprise, pride, and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A crooked half smile came onto his face as stepped to her side and retook her hand. When she looked back around, Tormund had a satisfied smile on his face, and Arya would’ve called it smug if not for the pain in the man’s eyes. 

Just then Brienne and the Hound joined their little group. Brienne merely nodded to her, but of course Clegane had to say something. 

“You haven’t killed him then,” he said, with a sigh of disappointment. Davos huffed out a bit of annoyance.

“Why is everyone assuming she would kill me?Just because she  _ can _ doesn’t mean she  _ will _ ,” Gendry exclaimed in half-real, half-mocking frustration.

“She can then?” Sandor said, with a questioning glance in her direction. “She tells me that when you two spar it’s generally a draw,” he continued, nodding to Brienne. “I’d like to see what the fuck everyone’s talking about.”

She could feel Gendry freeze for a moment. She squeezed his hand and then let go. Her voice was amused and aloof when she replied. “Of course you would. Alright, “ she said, stepping past Davos and walking out into the center of the yard. When she turned and saw him still standing in the same spot, she spread her arms out in frustration, gesturing to the area around her. “Come on then!” she shouted, and she could see Gendry grin, though he did look tense. 

The Hound didn’t wait for a formal start, because of course he didn’t. He was not ten feet from her when he drew his sword and rushed in. She had to dodge his first strike without unsheathing Needle. She let herself glance once more to the small group of figures watching them. She saw Gendry’s worried but excited face, as well as another figure approaching the group. She reminded herself to focus. 

She thought it would be like fighting Brienne, based on size alone. She stayed low and quick, getting inside his absurdly long range, never meeting a blow head-on. But the way he fought was different. Brienne’s fighting was full of quiet but strong determination, a slow but inevitable onslaught of blows. Clegane was no less skilled, but he was wild, going on the attack at seemingly random intervals, with no pattern or plan to his movements. Brienne fought like she was doing sums, following an exact process. The Hound fought like he was drowning.

Eventually, he managed to hit her, his elbow striking her temple as she was dodging a savage slash, knocking her to one knee. She could feel the hard impact, and could hear muffled cursing coming from the direction of Gendry and the others. She used the momentum of falling to roll into his back leg, making him rock back as he attempted to not fall over. This gave her time to stand within his guard, bringing Needle’s point to rest just under the point of his chin.

He froze quickly, and looked at her with a gruff kind of pride as he began to laugh. She grinned fiercely as she withdrew Needle and stepped back.

“You fight like a damned gnat!” he shouted.

“You fight well,” a voice carried across the yard, and Arya swiveled to the direction of Jon’s deep voice. He must’ve come while she was fighting, and he was now standing just in front of Davos and Gendry. She would’ve expected a smile, but instead he looked like he was barely containing a sea of grief and rage.

He walked to her, and it was like he was barely standing under a mountain of worries. He didn't even look at her before turning to the Hound. 

_ Something’s wrong.  _

“Get your steel up,” he said, his face a barely controlled storm of grief and rage. His voice was unquestionably a command he expected to be obeyed.  _ King in the North. Right. _

The Hound looked surprised, but began to step back and bring his sword arm up.

She put her arm out across his torso, and re-positioned herself in front of him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she asked, curiosity morphing to anger.

“He hit you,” he said, as if it was self-explanatory.  _ You honorable oaf. I can’t believe you. _

She got quiet, her voice getting dangerously low as she used sickly sweet voice. “And you need to avenge my honor, is that it?”

She shoved him back as hard as she could and brought Needle up in a guard. 

“Draw your sword. Let me show you how much protecting I need,’ she challenged.

At first he look dumbstruck, but then he drew his sword with a determined look.

The sword was not a length Arya had a lot of experience fighting, it was too short to be a two handed weapon and too long to be for one hand.  _ A bastard sword. Of course. Where the fuck did he get a Valyrian steel sword. _

He was waiting for her to strike first, she realized.  _ Honorable, yes, but also patronizing.  _

She flew at him in a mad fury. She fought with both Needle and the Dagger, testing him. Seeing how far his reach was, how fast, his footing, his strength.  _ He’s better than Brienne. Not by much, but still. _

Jon fought like he had when he was younger, without the tempering she’d have expected the years to have had on his rage. All fire and fury, all action and no thought. It was the the kind of anger that existed so one did not have to feel sadness. She was intimately familiar with it. It was burning right through him. 

She nearly got him when he lunged unwisely, and again when she was able to trip him. She suspected he would have been a much better fighter if he wasn’t entirely relying on rage to fuel him. She decided to take advantage of that rage. Viciously.

She began dodging and weaving, making him follow her. She feinted time and again, and he fell for it more times than not, barely blocking her blows. 

Eventually she saw her opportunity. She let him slash upwards, and as his guard went up she ducked, dropped, and threw herself at his torso. She knocked him flat back into the mud, knocking the wind out of him and his sword out of his hand. The Valyrian steel dagger was at his throat as she straddled his chest.

His nostrils flared, and he attempted to reach his sword.

Arya shot one leg out to kick the carved handle out of his reach, and pressed the dagger slightly harder into the skin of his neck. Not enough to draw blood, but only barely. This wasn’t exactly the way she would’ve like to find out Jon’s combat skills, but if he was going to be an idiot then he deserved it. 

For a moment, she was worried he’d lose face because a woman had bested him, but she dismissed it. _ They know that none of them can beat me if I know they’re coming. There may be a few snickers, but mostly they will remember how long it took me to beat him. If a blade to his throat is the way to get him to listen, so be it. _

She nearly rolled her eyes at his continued struggling. She spoke low enough she knew only he would hear her. “I’ve got you, accept it. I’m going to let you up in a moment, you are not going to scowl, you’ll follow me to your rooms and tell me what the  _ fuck  _ is going on.” She early growled this last bit, baring her teeth. His eyes melted from fury to shame, and he gave her a small nod as he looked away.


	20. Jon IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya talks some sense into Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I woke up this morning absolutely hating the version I posted last night! This chapter is being re-written/edited and should be back soon!
> 
> ****EDIT: AND WE'RE BACK****

It took his baby sister sitting on his chest with a knife to his throat for him to realize he was being an idiot.

He knew how erratic he’d been while they fought, attacking like a green boy with a grudge. _Like I just wanted to hit something._ Shame washed through him. It was like he was bleeding inside, he didn’t know where from, only that it was lethal. He was frantically looking for something to stem the tide of grief. But it wasn’t just grief, he felt like he didn’t belong here; or anywhere for that matter.

He couldn't look at anyone as they began to walk to his chambers, kept his head down and tried to stop replaying the sound of Daenerys crying in his mind. His rage had gone from fire in his veins to lead weighing him down. He was vaguely aware of Arya telling Gendry she’d find him later, and of the alarming shade of purple the young man turned as Tormund said something in his ear.

 _Gods she’s grown. Have I changed that much?_ He flexed his burned hand sharply, and as he breathed deeply the still-healing scar over his heart itched against the fabric of his shirt.

_I had to._

He looked at her a little closer now, saw the grace in her walk, the confidence in her shoulders. _So did she._

She walked them to his rooms, and he realized he was expecting to have to tell her that he was no longer boarded where he had been when they were children. _Of course she knows I wouldn’t be in my old chambers. I’m a King now. Or I was._

She opened the door, raised her eyebrows at him until he walked in first.

The first room was his personal solar, smaller than Sansa’s. He was in the rooms designed for the Lady of Winterfell, though Lady Catelyn had broken tradition and chosen to share Lord Stark’s rooms entirely. He’d asked Sansa to take those. “They were built for a Stark,” he’d said to her. “I am not a Stark.”

_I hate being right for the wrong reasons._

“Arya, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-" he began, before seeing two figures in the open doorway to his bedroom. Ghost walked into the solar, and the second figure merely made eye contact for a moment before very quietly stepping out of sight. His lungs stopped working for a moment.

_Of course._

He sat at the small table by the window and Ghost sat next to him, staring as Arya walked in.

She sat across from him. Her voice was carefully controlled, as if she was expecting him to start fighting again. “What’s going on?” Arya asked, the simple question heavily weighted with worry.

 _Answer true, as if it is only Arya hearing these words. She deserves to know all of it as well anyway._ He looked away, and absently reached to stroke Ghost’s head. He breathed very deeply, his breath becoming ragged as it went out. He swallowed hard before looking her straight in the eye.

“Bran saw something, and Sam found something in the Citadel. Both tell the same truth. I am not a bastard. And I am not your brother,” he said, and watched her face flicker from confusion to grief before a blank mask settled over her features. He couldn’t continue, he knew he needed her to ask.

“Then who are you?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. _Here we go._

He paused, knowing saying these next words would cost him something. He straightened in his seat, pulling his shoulders back. He did not have to like this, but he would not hide from it. “I am the true born son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. My name is Aegon Targaryen.”

He couldn’t breathe or move in nervousness. He could only look at her, the one person in Winterfell who honestly never gave a fuck what his name was.

The mask dropped off her face, and her mouth opened slightly, but then her features crunched in disbelief and confusion.

“No- wasn’t he married to a Martell?” she asked, and the innocent heartbreak in her voice made her sound just like she did when she was a child.

“The High Septon annulled the marriage, and performed the ceremony himself,” he said with a defeated sigh. “Sam found the man’s diary.”

She was still shaking her head then, and spoke almost as if he wasn’t there. “So the rebellion was built on a lie.” She seemed lost in thought, staring out the window.

_The question is, whose lie was it?_

“I thought I was the only stain of dishonor Father had. Turns out, claiming me was the most honorable thing he ever did,” he told her, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“You would’ve been- you are, the heir to the Iron Throne. Father said you were his bastard to protect you from Robert Baratheon,” she said slowly, understanding. “Your best defence was that no one knew you existed.” She let out a small huff of derision. “He thought he was in love with her, but he wasn’t even paying enough attention to know she loved someone else.” She was looking away, and he curiously caught her eye.

She explained softly. “There’s a washerwoman, here, her name is Audra. She was at the Tourney of Harrenhal with Lyanna, she knows things. You should speak with her,” she told him, and he tried not to let old childish hopes flame up again. The subject of his mother had always been a sore spot for him, a wound he usually wouldn’t admit he had. To actually know what she was like, even a little bit...

But Arya was talking again, trying to reassure him and somehow giving the impression she thought he was stupid all at once. “But Father loved you, Jon. He raised you as his own, this doesn’t change that. You are his child just as much as I am and you are my brother just as you have always been.”

He didn’t say anything, was trying to blink the tears from his eyes, couldn’t look at her. He had thought she’d accept him, of course, it was Arya, but there was doubt throughout his very being at the moment. _Does this one lie make all that came after it untrue?_

“But you know that,” she said, like she was stating the obvious. “That’s not the problem, is it? You don’t want to be the heir,” she said, staring him down, and her hands began to gesticulate sharply as she continued.

“Well you don’t have to be! It’d be fucking difficult to even _prove_ that you’re a Targaryen-” she stopped, the thought halting her in her tracks.

Her eyes softened, and it wasn’t pity in them, it was genuine empathy. “Oh,” she said, sadness and disappointment coming onto her face. “You idiot.”

That took him by surprise “What?” he asked, confused.

“You ended it with her, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice impossibly quiet, pain in her eyes.

“You love her,” surprise flushed over his face at that, panic and worry, but she continued, waving it away. “Yes, of course I know, you’re not exactly subtle. You love her and it was impossible enough before, but now-” she looked down, shaking her head. “Now you think you can never be with her.”

He said the next words almost mechanically, as if they were someone else's and he was merely reading them aloud. “She’s my aunt, Arya. She may not care, she may hate me forever, but-,”

She interrupted him, a dark sarcasm dripping from her words. “I didn’t exactly pay attention to Maester Luwin’s lessons on the family trees of the great houses, but even I know that that’s nothing for Targaryen’s. There’ve even been a few Stark marriages that close,” she said, and he was shaking his head.

“But never mind that. You love her, she’s alive, and she’s in the building. What the fuck were you thinking?” She was getting angry now, a flash of righteous indignation rippling through her. “Who gives a shit who either of you are? Are you a craven, to go looking for someone to hit because you aren’t willing to fight for what you’ve got?” she stood up, and saw her hands trembling.

“If not for Davos, Gendry would be dead,” she said, her anger snapping like a banner in the wind. “If not for a miracle and sheer chance I would never have gotten him back. I’ve only had two hours with him and I already know that nothing is going to take him from me.” _Good. Didn't want to have to send him away_ _._ Her words were intense, the same intensity with which she fought. Tenacious, perfectly timed, and with no wasted breath.

“And you’re just going to throw what you have away? Why?” she demanded forcefully.

“Because it’ll get her killed!” he yelled back at her. _How does she not see that._  “I may not survive the coming battles, Arya, I’m not going to let her die with me. No one will see her claim as legitimate with _me_ as her husband.”

“You don’t know that! And anyway if you two aren’t working together we can’t defeat the Night King. But the boy I left would never have been able to live with himself if he found what you have and set it aside.” She took a step towards him.

“You think it’s your honor that means you can’t be with her but you’re wrong. It’s dishonorable to her and to yourself to not be with her,” she said harshly. _She has changed, but not that much. She still doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks, no matter the cost._

“You sound like Sansa’s stories,” he said, sadness and resignation in his voice.

“I sound like I always do when I’m telling you you’re being a noble idiot,” she shot back. Comparing her to Sansa was perhaps too far.

“How then, Arya? How do we do it? How do we prove who I am, make the northern lords still follow us, then win the kingdoms back from Cersei? How do we defeat the Night King?” He was getting louder, angrier, practically growling out the last question. He was worried the anger would burn itself out, as it felt like the only thing keeping him grounded to reality.

Her face became frustrated, almost annoyed, like she wasn’t sure why he was bringing it up. “My version involves several assassinations, but I’m sure there are other ways. Did you talk to anyone before deciding this? Davos, Sansa, hells even Tyrion Lannister? No?” She got quiet, disappointed, her voice getting softer. “What about Daenerys herself?”

He deflated, a resigned kind of regret washing onto his features as he finally started to understand Arya's point. _I fucked up didn’t I._

“Did you even try to come with a plan? Or did you just decide that it was impossible? Just give up as soon as you found out? You do know it’s only martyrdom if there’s no other choice, right?” she said, clearly not expecting him to answer. He stumbled back, sat down gracelessly. He couldn’t meet her eyes in shame.

“I can’t be the reason she dies. Not again. Not her,” he said in a soft and broken voice. He put his head in his hands on the table. _Better to lose her, and her live, than to condemn her to die by my side. She has to understand that._

She sat as well, and leaned over to pull one hand from his forehead, hold it rested on the table. He looked up. “Again?” she asked, her voice impossibly quiet, all trace of disappointment gone in favor of deep concern. He nodded, an unsure, stuttering thing. “Tell me what happened, Jon.”

He squeezed her hand. _If I told Arya my name, I can tell her this. And… she deserves to hear it as well._

“Not too long after I took my vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch, we rode in force against the Free Folk. They had been massing under Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall. I went out on a ranging, and she captured me. Qhorin Halfhand, the First Ranger, was captured by her band as well. He told me to kill him to gain their trust, and I did. But what really gained their trust was me falling in love with…” he swallowed hard, clenching his jaw and pulling his hand back before continuing. He stared at the table.

“Her name was Ygritte. We climbed the Wall with a small band that was to attack Castle Black from the south while the rest of Mance’s forces stormed the gate. Once we were over, I left to warn my brothers.” He paused, felt the ghost of a smile around his eyes. “She shot me as I rode away. Several times.”

“She was brave and clever and fierce. She had red hair, and she told me so many stories, she would say to me; ‘You know nothing, Jon Snow’. She just wanted to be free.” He looked up, meeting his sisters look with hollow eyes. “When the they attacked Castle Black, she died in my arms. I didn't mean to- I knew I wasn't staying but-" he stopped himself, deciding how he wanted to say it. _I'll j_ _ust fucking say it._

"I knew it would end, but I loved her enough I didn't care. And she died for it."

Arya sat back in her chair, sighing, pain in her eyes. She shook her head emphatically. “It wasn't your fault. She would've been in the attack either way. That’s not going to happen again, Jon. We won’t let it.”

He brought his hand up to rub his forehead. _She’s still so young._ “You can’t make that promise, Arya, you don’t know what will happen.”

“And neither do you!” She exclaimed, sad exasperation on her face. “Have you even told Daenerys that story?”

He shook his head, just a bit. "I'm not sure- how to-..." he trailed off, unable to find the right words. He looked at her, too sad to be properly exasperated.. “I thought I was finally able to be the Bastard of Winterfell without shame, and now....” he faded out, feeling the wave of uncertainty he’d been holding at bay wash through him.

“... now I’m not even that anymore. It feels like...like I got lost,” he said, in a soft, almost whisper of a voice.

Fierce compassion came over her face.“You’ve just been told that your very birth was a lie. That your father isn’t your father and your name isn’t your name. That the family you were supposed to have was murdered. You’re angry, and grieving, and scared, and that’s alright, you’ve lost too many people to not be terrified of losing more. We all have.” She paused, glancing down for just a moment. There was a sadness creeping into her voice as she continued.

“You don’t want her to die in your arms, but the solution isn’t her never being in your arms again. You’re afraid of the way you might lose her, so you’ve decided that this will be less painful. But I promise you Jon, it won’t.” She paused, took a small breath.

Her voice got louder and more sure. “You’re not lost. You know who you are, you know who you love, and you know what you stand for. It doesn’t matter what your name is.”

 _When did she get so wise. I’ve missed her more than I knew._ “So what would you have me do?” he asked, genuinely curious. He wasn’t convinced that he and Daenerys could be together, but it was like Arya had given him permission to try. Or rather, she’d given him the courage to give _himself_ permission.

“You find her and tell her you’re an idiot. Then you tell her what you’re afraid of. All of it. And then, together, and with everyone here who _chose_ to follow the two of you, you figure out the rest,” she told him matter-of-factly.

He felt his face fall, and suddenly he felt very much the boy he’d been when he’d last seen her. His voice was quiet, frightened. “What if I’m not enough? What if I’m not capable of being…” he looked away, searching for the word.

“A King?” she asked, a dark and dry humor on her tongue.

“A good man,” he corrected, completely serious.

She laughed, a genuine, cracking sound that barked once before she composed herself, looking at him fondly. “I can confidently say you are the only person who’s worried about that,” she told him, and he felt like there was a joke he wasn’t understanding.

“And what if I get myself killed again? What if my honor blinds me, like it did Robb and Father?”

Her eyes went dark, and her body unnaturally still. She spoke matter-of-factly, but there was an undeniable violence in her, a malevolence she was controlling. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He cocked his head at her. “And what does that mean?” he asked cautiously.

She looked at him with that continued unnatural stillness, and her voice sounded odd. Like someone else was using it. “What have they told you about where I’ve been?” she asked, her eyes giving away only the slightest bit of apprehension.

“Gendry told me that you were in Baelor’s square when Father was killed. That you were going to Winterfell with a group of men going to the wall. That you and he survived together, on your own, at Harrenhal, and with the Brotherhood. Clegane told me about your time together, about the Red Wedding. And then Sansa said you trained with the Faceless Men,” he said, listing them and furiously trying not to lt any of his own guilt or anger enter his tone. He knew he was not entirely successful.

She nodded seriously, a little sad. “That’s more than I thought. I want to tell you and Sansa and Bran all of it together, but I need to tell _you_ what exactly training to be a Faceless Man means.”

As she explained, he gave up on keeping his face still. It wasn’t working, and if what she told him about the Game of Faces was even a little true, then it didn’t matter. _I’ve never been able to lie to her anyway._

So his concern and horror played out across his features unchecked as he listened to her explain what exactly the function of the House of Black and White was. His fear and disbelief as she told him what she could do, even outside of the faces, his rage at the method by which she’d learned hand-to-hand combat. When she told him about the Frey’s he could feel all the blood drain from his face, and a fierce and unexpected pride began to spark in him. She told him about stealing and spying, about poisons and healing, and awe came over his features.

_She’s a warrior. A very different kind, but a master of it all the same. If even half of this is true, she’s just… incredible._

When she stopped she looked at him, suddenly very uncertain. “What?” she asked, a little unnerved.

He pulled his face together and paused before he answered. “I knew you’d grown up, obviously. In my head you were just a bigger version of the same person, but you’ve become something else entirely.”

He saw her begin to retreat, to hide the self-consciousness with a blank mask. ‘No One’, she’d called it.

“No, no, it’s not a bad thing, not at all. It’s amazing Arya, it really is. You are still yourself, and I love you still,” he said, and as her face began to peak back out from the mask he knew he’d recovered. _She’s been alone so long, it’s going to take some time for her to trust anyone again._

“So you want to…  protect me?” he asked, cautiously.

She nodded, her eyes full of pride and determination. “You aren’t good at seeing some things coming. You don’t understand how people who aren’t bound by honor think. I can see those things. I can take care of them,” she explained coolly. He could feel worry come onto his face as she kept talking. “I don’t have to kill anyone, Jon. I just have to listen.”

“A Master of Whispers?” he asked, surprised.

“Maybe someday,” she said, with a small nod. “But for now, just let me be at your side.” She looked genuinely worried that he was going to say no.

He shook his head and a subdued smile fought its way to his face. “Of course, Arya. Who else will tell me when I’m being a noble idiot?” he said, with a sliver of dry humor.

She huffed a breath of laughter, and for a moment they just sat, together. Their world had just shifted a bit, they had come to a new understanding. He hadn’t been sure what Arya’s place in all this would be, and he was glad it was this.

She sighed, and looked at him curiously. “So are you going to go talk to her?” she asked, and he knew that if he didn’t answer correctly she was poised to launch right back into scolding him.

He stood, and she followed him to the door.

“I’ll go speak to her now,” he said solemnly. “Thank you, Arya.” He gave her a quick hug, and it warmed him. _She's still my family. That's never going to go away._ As she left, she had her long-suffering-little-sister look on her face.

He closed and barred the door, then walked through the solar to the bedroom like he was going to a funeral, Ghost walking in front of him, sitting at her side.

She was sitting in the chair right next to the door.

“Did you hear all of it then?” he asked quietly, tiredly, trying not to let hope into his voice or his features.

She looked at him, eyes still a bit red from crying, but otherwise seemed entirely composed. He knew she wasn’t, but he suspected he was among very few people who would be able to tell that.

“All of it,” Daenerys said quietly.

He nodded and walked into the bedroom.


	21. Davos III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos watches some fights and has a little talk with Tormund.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY if you read chapter 20 within ~16 hours of it going up you should go read it again cuz I redid the whole damn thing it's waaay better now.

Davos didn’t think seeing his King get his arse kicked by his own little sister was a likely prospect for the day’s events. 

Then again learning that he should be calling him ‘King’ for an entirely different reason than he already had been was also not something he’d anticipated, so maybe it was just going to be a mad day all around.

And now that he thought about it, it had been. He’d just seen a wildling he’d faced in battle spar with four little girls. And lose. Then Arya didn’t just beat Jon, she also defeated Clegane. It had been quite the spectacle. 

As the King walked a way, Davos couldn’t help but worry. Jon seemed to be a small ship in a sudden and brutal storm, just trying to stay above water, damn the direction. He knew he couldn’t help, that the younger man needed to stem the bleeding himself. Hopefully Arya would help with that, but Davos knew his counsel needed to wait until Jon got his head on straight.

_ To be told you aren’t who you are, that the woman you love is your aunt? I’m just glad that the  _ only _ stupid thing he's done is be soundly beaten by a tiny woman with a tiny sword. _

Davos had seen her kind of fighting before, the water-dancing of the Bravoosi. But she used it differently, there was an edge to her fighting, a ferocity. Many of the bravos Davos had met were nothing more than spoiled boys playing a game, and their fighting reflected that. A pretty thing, but often only deadly accidentally. She had clearly been taught by a master, one of the old guard of the city. Someone for whom being a swordsman was their way of life, not merely another way to accessorize.

More than that, there were moments where her movements were feline, foreign. Like she was playing a different game than everyone else. 

_ She is. She’s an assassin playing among the soldiers like a child at a dance. She doesn’t know the steps and she doesn’t care, she’s making up her own. _

During each of the fights Davos kept glancing sidelong at Gendry. The lads face was a quiet and deep kind of awe. He wasn’t scared for her, even when Clegane struck her on the temple. Though, from where Davos was standing, that looked at least a little accidental. Davos stepped forward instinctively, letting out a muffled grunt of anger.

But Gendry stuck his hand out to stop him. The young man’s eyes were intense, his nostrils were slightly flared, and his jaw tense, but he held his ground. “Let her,” he said, the simple sentence so clearly a command it gave Davos pause.  _ Maybe the temper isn’t the only thing he inherited. _

Davos looked to the others, and saw Jon standing behind them all, rooted to the ground with a fire in his eyes.  _ When the fuck did he get here? He can be as quiet as that damn wolf of his, I swear.  _ Brienne was smirking, Tormund actively and crudely cheering Arya on, Beric bemused.

She won. Davos was not a fighter, he knew it didn’t mean much that he had no idea what had just happened. But when he looked over at the others, and Tormund and Beric seemed just as surprised.

He thought it would be over, but then Jon began to walk to the center of the yard.  _ Fuck me then. This will end well. _

As Jon fought, Davos reminded himself that his King was one of the best fighters of his generation, despite the fact that at the moment he looked almost drunk. All wrath and rashness, with none of the controlled brutality Davos would have expected. Jon’s skill was still evident, but his mind was not. He wasn’t the only one to notice either, Tormund caught his eye with a disbelieving look and a nod in Jon’s direction. Davos merely shook his head, unsure how to respond.  _ He’s got a perfectly good reason for being an idiot that I absolutely cannot say. And this is not the situation where a smuggler’s lies will cut it. _

Arya won, and it was a drawn out process. She made him chase her, she was playing with him. She met her brother’s heedless strength with calculated fury. Every movement was planned and used, her face flipping between fierce glee and nothing at all.

Jon was slowing down, breathing harder, and was on his back and disarmed in a flash after she literally threw herself at him. Davos couldn’t tell what she was saying as she held a dagger to his throat, but he saw his King’s face fall and fill with shame. Jon wouldn’t meet his eye as he followed his sister out of the yard. If before he looked drunk, now he was comatose, just a body shuffling along. 

As Arya came back to Gendry, the lad touched her chin with an intense and proud look on his face, before turning her head to look at the temple that was struck. She gave him a small, indulgent smile, pulling his hand down and saying “I’m fine. I’ll find you later.” Sh gave him a quiet but significant smile before walking off, King in tow.

Tormund was already saying something in the lads ear,  and Gendry was turning purple with what seemed to be half anger, half embarrassment. Tormund let out a small, kind chuckle, and turned to Davos.

“What happened to Lord Crow? I’ve fought against him and I’ve fought beside him and he’s only once had that look on his face.” Tormund’s tone started as joking but faded to serious, and Davos could just make out grief in his eyes. 

Davos kept his eyes on Tormund as long as could before the silence became awkward, the other man’s eyes getting more and more serious and sad. He turned to Brienne.

“Would you perhaps show Gendry to the forge?” he said, politely and quietly, but he could tell Brienne knew something was wrong. He looked to Gendry next. 

“You’ll be put to work soon enough, and the forge here is in much better repair than the one at Dragonstone,” he told him, and the lad had a questioning look in his eye but nodded nonetheless.

“Alright then. I need to see about making myself a new hammer anyway,” he said, concern suspended for an almost cheerful disposition. Brienne pointed, and they began to walk away.

Clegane looked between him and Tormund suspiciously. “Keep your fucking secrets. I need wine,” he said gruffly, and began walking away in a seemingly random direction. 

Beric grimaced, and pointing after Clegane said “I’ll…” before gesturing, making it clear that he would attempt to keep the larger man out of trouble before he began to follow.

When the others were all out of earshot, Tormund took a step closer to him, and with a sharp and deadly calm said; “What happened to him?”

Davos had always worried as to the reality of the wildling’s loyalty to Jon. Was it merely situational? Jon was the reason what few of Tormund’s people had survived did so. Yes, they had fought together, but did it extend farther than that? Davos had never gotten the story of how they knew each other before Stannis had shown up. 

But any doubt Davos had had about the other man’s commitment melted in that moment. This wasn’t the face of someone looking out for their own interests, it was genuine worry and grief for a friend.  _ He does have quite the knack for inspiring loyalty. _

“I can’t tell you,” Davos said, shaking his head as he decided not to lie to Tormund. He didn’t deserve that. “He received some news that… will be difficult moving forward, but I don’t know what that will look like just yet,” he continued, watching the other man’s face go from disbelieving to frustrated.

“Dammit man-” Tormund turned his face away for a moment, clenching his jaw and breathing out harshly. His voice got much quieter, and he leaned in. “The last time he looked like that his woman had just died in his arms. It’s not just bad news, something has  _ changed _ . Tell me.” he said fiercely, his eyes entreating Davos.  _ His woman? The wildling the men whisper about? _

“Telling you would put him in danger,” Davos said intensely, agitated and scared, and making no effort to hide it. ”I cannot. I wouldn’t deny you unless I had very good reason, you know that.” 

Tormund huffed harshly, and while he wasn’t mollified he clearly understood. He looked away, and Davos began to see how tired the other man was, how he was fraying around the edges.  _ We all are. _ “Fucking kneelers. You know it’s mad that speaking the plain truth would be dangerous, right?”

He looked back at Davos. “You’ll tell me if I can help?” he said quietly, and Davos sure nod seemed to give him some small bit of comfort. “Alright then.”

They stood in silence for a moment before Davos cautiously asked, “What did you mean, that his woman died in his arms?”

Tormund looked to him in faint surprise before sadness filled his eyes. “Aye, I suppose he wouldn’t have said anything. I can’t blame him. Some wounds you can’t-” he stopped, shook his head. “You can’t acknowledge them or you’ll fall apart.” He took a deep breath before beginning.

He told Davos of a fierce and willful young woman, of a crow who was still teetering on the edge of manhood. Of the war that brought them together and tore them apart. Of loyalty and love and loss.  _ Why didn’t you say anything you stubborn, stubborn man. You can’t keep letting this fester. _

“He didn’t want to love her, just as much as she didn’t want to love him. She hated him, hated herself after he left. It wasn’t going to be a happy story no matter what happened, but the way she died was cruel. If he’s just been carrying her around with him, then…” Tormund got a haunted, hollow look in his eye, and Davos knew the man’s own ghosts weren’t far from his mind. 

He shook his head, and looked to Davos seriously. “A man can only lose what anchors him so many times before he drifts away. And none of us are going to survive this without him keeping us all together. Whatever’s happened, Davos, you need to fix it, and soon.”

Davos nodded and clapped the wildling on the shoulder. Nothing else needed to be said, and Tormund began to walk away. Davos was rooted to the spot in thought and worry. 

The problem was that there were so many things they didn’t know.  _ The problem is that he’s a fucking Targaryen.  _ There were two questions that needed to be answered before they could do anything else.  _ And we need them answered fast.  _

_ Are we telling people who he is? Will the two of them be together? _

He began to walk toward the guest quarters. He knew who he needed to speak with.


End file.
